


Hell House

by narukyu



Series: Hell Hath No Fury [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cults, Gore, Kidnapping, Language, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Original Character Death(s), Religious Themes & References, kids in peril
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narukyu/pseuds/narukyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A devotedly unreligious man sends his youngest son to a private religious school. If that wasn't suspicious enough, Sam can't get a hold of John or Dean, people are disappearing right and left, and, in the night, something whispers in the silence of the old chapel. Soon enough, Sam discovers that something terrible lingers behind the doors to the sacristy--something that sheds a light on the secret holy mission of the Soldiers of Christ as well what happened to his family so many years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this for the spn_j2_bigbang over on Livejournal a while ago. Now I'm editing it slightly and uploading it here before I start posting the sequel. Posting here will probably go fairly slowly, so if you wanted to get the whole thing all once, typos and all, you can go to my fic LJ (narukyu-fic) and read it there. Or... you can wait and get the prettier version.
> 
> Speaking of pretty, I'd like to thank my artist, ixcacao, for making such wonderful art for me, which you all can see on her LJ. I'd also like to thank lunaloup for diving into this mess and betaing it for me.

 

 _Abandoned Convent Proposed for Site of New School_

 _With funding from undisclosed donors, a nonprofit religious organization seeks to build a private school on the ruins of Saint Mary's Convent in Ilchester, Maryland. The property, home of a gruesome homicide in 1972, stands infamous in the memories of nearby residents as being the place where a local priest murdered eight women in one night. Since the murders, the property has been deserted and abandoned._

 _However, this unfortunate history is not enough to dissuade Father Gregory Thompson, the director of the nonprofit organization. When asked about the wisdom of building the school on the site, he compares their efforts to the construction of Solomon's Temple._

 _"In the Bible, David says to his son, 'Be strong and courageous and do the work. Do not be afraid or discourage, for the lord God, my god, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work for the service of the temple of the lord is finished.'"_

 _The decision to build is hotly protested by locals, who believe that the site of the tragedy should be left alone, and by paranormal enthusiasts, who insist the place is haunted._

 _Regardless of public opinion, the school looks like it will be built sooner rather than later. The former convent has already been sold to Thompsom and he and his associates have already hired a building crew._

 _Construction of the new school and church could start as early as next month._

Jessica Gottman, _Howell Sun Times_. March 12, 1984

 

\-----

 

The radio crankily spewed static in the cramped space of his car. Troy Michaels winced. Reception was always shitty during the summer in Ilchester, even at night. His dad said it had something to do with melting cables and lazy maintenance workers.

Making a face, he pounded on the dash until the white noise settled into something comprehensible. One eye on the road, the other on the radio, Troy kept spinning the knob until a voice broke out in the hot night air.

A sports broadcaster was jubilantly announcing the prospects of the upcoming Holyfield match, which made Troy sigh. Since when did anything interesting happen in boxing?

Ten more minutes of futile tuning got him no more results nowhere. Defeated, he turned the radio off, clenching his hands tight around the wheel. The ladies lived around here. They'd understand, hopefully.

Just thinking about the _ladies_ made Troy smile, because, whoa. He'd gone from pathetic, love sick, love abandoned puppy to _player_ in the space of one week. Troy's smile broadened as glee fluttered in his chest.

Not one girl, not two, but three of them. _At the same time._

Okay, okay. He had to be honest--it was just a road trip, and not some kinky four-way orgy. But, shit, the summer was still young! Troy grinned at the road. And as long as those fine, fine Catholic school girls needed him, there was always a good chance… no, a strong chance… a damn near inevitability that something awesome was going to happen.

And maybe that was overconfidence speaking--sure, whatever. But, if he could be confident about one thing, it was that the summer of 1998 was going to be the best summer of his entire life.

He grinned to himself, but the expression died quickly as the school grew larger and larger in his windshield. Troy shifted in place uncomfortably, eyes locked on the odd, mysterious place. With its tall black gates and severely plain buildings, it looked more like a prison than a freaking school. Swallowing a bit, he pulled the car off of the road next to the gates.

He squinted up at them, trying to fend off his instinctive sense of dread. Saint Mary's School was offsetting during the day, and fucking creepy during the night. The moon obscured more than it revealed, dragging shadows across the chapel while painting the other buildings bone white.

Swallowing again, Troy pulled the key out of ignition and settled back in his seat, ready to wait. His eyes drifted immediately back to the iron fence, and to the silhouette of the chapel some ways beyond it. Dim lights slid through stained glass, bouncing up and down in sphere-like shapes. People walking with candles? God, he hoped so.

The chapel was the only building with lights. The two other buildings, both of which bracketed the chapel on either side, were dark inside, their small, randomly scattered windows not revealing any hint of movement or life.

And so Troy waited.

Ten minutes passed with neither hide nor hair of the ladies. Sweat soaked through his shirt, pooling damply under his arms and between his shoulder blades. Shooting a bittersweet glare at the broken air conditioner, Troy rolled down the window.

The property was eerily quiet. Despite the heat, Troy felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

This was a bad place. He didn't like it, not one bit.

Troy sighed, sweeping his hand over his sweaty forehead. He tried to psyche himself out of his paranoia, but he could think of nothing good about the school. He'd never been on the grounds--it was private property--but he'd heard plenty of things about it.

Most of it was pretty negative. The kids who went there tended to be intense and creepy, the guys especially. The whole town collectively held its breath whenever the school let the kids out for their field trips, but Troy had met a few decent kids in the bunch--like the ladies, for one. That didn't change the fact that there were some pretty rotten apples in the bunch, though. A lot of pets went missing whenever the kids were let loose from the school.

It was the same story every time. A neighbor would go looking for Fifi or Fido, only to find their precious pet hung from a tree by their tail, dead and with organs missing. There were some pretty creepy fuckers at Saint Mary's.

But it wasn't just the kids. Saint Mary's was rotten to the core, and was that way before the school set down their foundations. His dad had been around when the murders happened in the seventies. A priest had gone crazy. Absolutely insane. He straight up butchered a bunch of nuns, Troy'd heard.

If there was a scarier thing than a peace loving, charity offering man of the church going ax murderer, he didn't ever want to see it.

A hand suddenly rapped on his passenger window. Troy jumped, his heart clanging in his chest, but it was no murderer or monster--it was a frigging nun. He peered suspiciously at the bland-looking woman outside of his car.

Awkwardly, he leaned over the seat and rolled down the window, trying to control his racing heart. "Uh, hi."

"Hello," she said briskly. She had a faint sheen of sweat over her eyebrows, but, other than that, looked unscathed by the humidity. "May I ask you why you're invading private property?"

"Uh…" What the hell? He was outside the gates, wasn't he? He recovered quickly and cleared his throat, trying to put on a winning, model citizen smile. "I'm here to pick up Natalie, Chrissy, and Julie."

"I'm sorry," the woman said, sounding anything but. "They've already left."

Startled, Troy nearly fell over the seat. "Wait, what?" he said, disbelieving. "We had a…" Troy's heart sank as he suddenly recalled the conspiratorial glances the girls had shot each other before the hot one, Natalie, approached him in the deli section of the grocery store. She'd leaned over the counter and spoke to him so softly, so _enticingly_ that Troy found himself agreeing to be their ticket out of Maryland before he'd even known that his dad would allow him to have the car.

Second verse, same as the first. Troy's jaw tightened. Played. _Again._ His heart sank.

"Thanks for your time, ma'am," he said coldly, settling back in his seat. He started the car and pulled it sharply into reverse, making a U-turn in the road before speeding off.

He sunk low in his cushions, something shriveling up inside of him when he imagined going home. His dad was gonna laugh his ass off. Kevin too, the little brat.

Pranked by a bunch of girls. _Shit_ , how embarrassing!

 

\-----

 

A girl hurried down the side hall of a church, contraband high heeled shoes clicking quickly over the tiled floor. She absently touched the back of her hair, fingers dancing over two of three purple butterfly pins—also contraband, Julie notied.

The girl seemed oblivious to Julie's incredulous stare, so, pointedly, Julie rose to her feet to greet her, crossing her arms over her school approved uniform, tapping the tip of her school approved shoe against the hard floor.

The other girl paused, noting the emphasis, and then blew her a raspberry.

Julie scowled. "You're late, Natalie."

The other girl waved a dismissive hand. "Quit being such a prude." She spun around in a half-circle, smiling at no one in particular. "I had to make myself pretty for _Troy_." She paused, and then pursued her lips at the slight reflection of a nearby picture frame of a saint.

Julie couldn't help staring. Natalie looked almost like an angel--or, at least, what Julie thought an angel was supposed to look like before her stint at Saint Mary's.

Even wonderful things--like angels--lost their shine and appeal here.

"You almost missed last confession," Julie said gruffly, shoving her hands in the pockets of her skirt.

"Psh." Natalie reached up, fussing with her hair. Her long, black mane was settled in what she called a style she called ‘indifferent, but classy'. Julie would have just called it a very messy bun, plus some ugly ass butterfly pins, but there was a reason no one ever asked her for hair tips. She barely had any to mess with, and she kept it that way.

Natalie was still squinting at the picture frame. "If it wasn't for the fact that there's only ten of us in good old 1979, I'd consider skipping. But, as it is…" She sucked in an almost silent breath, then gracefully whirled around, striking a pose. "They'd totally miss me!" A beat passed. Perhaps noticing a complete lack of admiring year-mates, she deflated quickly, looking up and down the empty hallway with poorly concealed disappointment. "How many are left?"

"Two," Julie said flatly. "You and me." Wasn't it obvious? “It's really late.”

"Ah, barely skated by, didn't I." Natalie floated around the hallway, bubbly and happy at nothing in particular. Then she got a good look at Julie's ever persistent scowl and faltered. Her expression abruptly turned soft and kind. "Hey. Cheer up. We'll be gone from this place in an hour. Two, tops. Then we'll have all the fun in the world." Her voice deepened slightly, moving into a slow, husky purr that had even the most stuck up nun tripping over herself to please Natalie.

It was compelling, as usual, but also completely ineffective.

Julie tilted her head, biting on a smile. "You know, your charm doesn't work on me."

"You could always pretend that it did," Natalie said playfully, taking Julie's hands in hers. She swung them lightly, back and forth, and Julie didn't suppress her smile anymore, let it spread and widen, letting her affection for Natalie show-

She slammed down on the expression, killing it quickly. She learned her lesson from before. It was a hard lesson, consisting of gold bars and strange writing, of her mouth moving without her permission, of that _otherness_ inside of her, dark and foul and so very, very wrong.

Feeling cold, Julie gently pulled her hands out of Natalie's, pretending she didn't see the other girl's hurt expression.

But Natalie was right. Once they finally left this place, everything would be better. It just has to be.

Suddenly, the door at the end of the hallway creaked open. They both tensed, eyes shooting toward the noise, paranoia molded and heightened by the place they'd both been forced to grow up in. But no one stood in the threshold. If they were there, they were out of sight.

Julie knew from experience that it was likely no one was there at all.

Natalie let out a slow, controlled breath. "O-kay. That wasn't terrifying at all." She had a white knuckled grip on the front of Julie's vest. She eventually released it, inching away from Julie, but not going very far.

"That means ‘next person'," Julie said, forcing herself to relax. She played at nonchalance, but the eighth phantom door opening was just as creepy as the first. It'd been easier to deal with before, what with Miguel's lame jokes and Jon's vaguely homicidal mutters. But they were gone now, third and fifth to go to confession, respectively.

And now it was her turn.

Shaking her head, Julie made for the door, only to be pulled back before she'd taken one full step.

"I was thinking…" Natalie said leadingly. Her eyes lowered. Her lashes were dappled with the faintest hint of glitter. When she looked up, Julie, quite fancifully, thought she'd been lost in an ocean of green. She couldn't will herself to look away.

Natalie paused for a moment longer, then bopped Julie on the nose. "Last one's a rotten egg!" With that, she took off down the hallway, new shoes clattering up a storm. Julie hauled ass after her, snarling and laughing in the same breath.

It was a close race, Natalie winning by a hair. She stretched herself across the threshold, as if ready to fight for her place, but Julie was already backing off. She knew not to touch other girls.

Natalie pouted at her for not playing along, and then grinned, patting herself down. "May be a little long," she said in a huffing breath. Her skin had a healthy glow. "I have _much_ to confess." Natalie blew her a kiss, then closed the door behind her. The sounds of her footsteps echoed through the door, eventually fading.

Groaning, Julie listed back to her seat, and waited some more.

At this rate, she was never going to leave this place. It was really, really late already. She let her head fall back to the wall and closed her eyes.

Julie ended up falling asleep that way, legs crossed, slouching in the uncomfortable chair. Under her eyelids danced flashes of a reoccurring nightmare--red splotched uniforms, people laying in rows, screaming static in her ears. She jerked awake, rubbing the back of her hand against her mouth distractedly, and then glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes had passed since Natalie went in, and the door down the hall was wide open.

She sat up quickly. How long had it been opened?

Swallowing nervously, Julie stood on suddenly weak legs, making her way down the hall, and through that door.

Behind the door was another hallway. Unlike the previous hallway, which was wide and spacious, the walls here were close together and sparse in decoration, as gray as wet concrete. Part of the original chapel, she theorized blindly, having never seen the old chapel, not really. Outside views didn't count. Plus, the old chapel was always under renovation. She didn't know anyone who'd been inside. Until now, that is.

Julie crept down the hallway to the one doorway, crossing through that small obstacle with trepidation. When she saw what was inside, she breathed out a sigh of relief, closing the door rather noisily behind her. Old chapel or new chapel, a church was just a church--she rather fondly thought she'd recognize a confessional anywhere. She bounded up the center aisle, distractedly genuflecting before nothing. She hurried into the confessional, realizing only belatedly that she should have knocked first. But it didn't matter anyway--she was alone.

Julie settled on the hard, lone bench in the confessional. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," she said, dutifully reciting the ritual words. She'd given her confession some thought, balancing some truth with some lies.

Priests here were pretty aggressive. If you didn't tell them enough about your own sins, they started assigning sins to you, and she'd had enough of that judgmental attitude to last her a lifetime, thank you very much. She didn't need it on her last day here too.

Clasping her hands together in her lap, Julie sucked in a breath, ready to get finish her last duty to this damn place so she could leave.

She paused, holding the air in her chest. She'd just noticed how quiet it was on the other side of the confessional--so, so quiet, like a graveyard. Or like a classroom after one of the nuns asked a question. It was a dead, heavy silence thick with anticipation of incoming noise.

Julie frowned. The priests were always noisy. The old man liked to flip through a journal and write shit down, like he was a therapist or something, and the preachy one never shut the hell up long enough to hear confession. Others shifted nervously in their seats or licked their lips too often. She even had a priest once who was a total mouth breather, which made an awkward confession even more awkward.

She'd never had _quiet_ before, but it was absolutely silent on the other side of the confession booth. She tried to peer through the partition, but could see nothing.

Was someone there? She called out, but no one answered. Freaked out at the idea of someone sitting there, silent, watching, she decided that the priest's side must be empty. Even old men needed bathroom breaks. Especially old men.

Julie's shoulders sagged as she sighed. So she'd have to wait some more then, huh? She stretched her legs out, thinking longingly of the trip they'd all take afterward. She smiled.

It was going to be wonderful. She just knew it.

After a moment, Julie glanced at her watch, squinting in near-total darkness at the clock face. Would Natalie leave her? Julie made a face at the ceiling. Chrissy might, but Chrissy was a bitch.

But Julie was fairly confident that Natalie wouldn't leave her--not here, not alone. Smiling at the thought, Julie stretched her legs across the floor, and then stopped when her foot was snagged on something. She leaned over, barely registering a small squeak of hinges behind her as she blindly swept her fingers across the confessional floor.

Her nails hit on something hard and metal.

She brought it up into the light that shone falteringly through the aesthetic holes in the confessional walls. She recognized it immediately and with it, the odd smell in the confessional. Julie stood quickly, heart thundering in her chest as she rolled one of Natalie's gaudy butterfly pins over and over in her hand, smearing red all over her pale fingers.

Pain suddenly shattered through her shoulder. With a cry, Julie fell forward against the partition, fingers clawing through the holes. Heavy, panicked breaths of another danced over her neck, and a hand tangled roughly in her short hair, pulling her back to the bench. She resisted and screamed at the top of her lungs, digging her nails into leather gloves, elbowing futilely at a solid, male torso. They spun around once, twice.

Then, in a fit of absolute desperation, she twisted in his grip, bringing the pointed end of Natalie's pin into the vulnerable curve of an exposed eye. He screamed and suddenly, she was thrown away, her body flying back like it was a rag doll.

There was a hidden door in the back of the confessional, behind the bench, and Julie fell through it, dropping to the ground in a clattering heap of elbows and knees. Holding her arm carefully, she scrambled to her feet, her shoes sliding for a moment, frictionless, against the tile. She heard the man thrash about and curse in the confessional behind her, but she didn't stop to watch. Heart pounding in her ears, she ran down the unknown, old chapel hallway.

There was a door there to her left--heavy and solid, just like the doors of any church. With a relieved sob, Julie wrenched it open with her good arm, stepping quickly inside of the poorly lit room, only thinking to get away, get out, run away. She'd just slammed the door shut behind her when she saw it. When she saw the floor.

When she saw her _dream_ , played out in real life.

Nine bodies were laid out on neatly sectioned out pieces of plastic. Sucking in a low, panicked breath, Julie drifted along the wall, her eyes darting everywhere, cataloging, naming-

Oh, God. _Naming_.

Julie looked down the row closest to her--Bill, with his stupid bowl cut, now smashed down the middle, Chrissy, nearly unrecognizable under the blood, Jon, one of his sharp cheekbones caved in, Miguel, whose scalp might as well been gone. Neatly pressed white shirts on all of them, flaked with blood and _other_.

And the body at Julie's feet--Natalie. Oh, Natalie. She looked like she was asleep, innocent and unbothered, her mortal wound covered by her artfully mussed hair.

Julie pressed her knuckles to her lips, trying to muffle the noise from her own mouth. Was that her? Screaming? Could a human being really sound like that?

The door behind her swung open. She turned quickly, trying to force her way out, but she was stopped by a throng of bodies, living and deadly. Hands tightened on her arms, her shoulders, and she tried to twisted this way and that out of their grasp, pain and fear warring for dominance.

They pushed her back into the room and she went with it, sobbing as she nearly tripped over one of her year-mates' legs. It was inevitable. She saw this in her dreams. They cared about her even less than the fickle child cared about the doll he or she tore apart. But, damn it, Julie _tried_.

"Please don't hurt me," she babbled, tears running down her face. She sought for humanity in a face that had long forgotten it. " _Please!_ "

"We're not trying to hurt you," a woman said kindly. She had one hand on Julie's neck. "We're trying to _save_ you." Her free arm darted low. Fire traced across Julie's stomach with a sharp tipped blade, and Julie only knew _pain_.

Then Julie was on her knees, crying, screaming, more panicked than in pain, her hands scrambling at fleshy wet things, trying to push them back _in_. And they just _watched_ , the four of them, two men lingering back, one with his hands tucked into his sleeves, the other with a hand pressed over his bleeding eye. And the woman, so so calm, her fingers curled tightly around a knife, eyed her like she was something new.

Julie stared up at them in disbelief. She had names for every one of them. That was why she didn't believe her dream--because she _knew_ them. She knew their lines in the sand. She knew--she _thought_ they wouldn't cross them.

 _Why?_

And then one of the men said, "We didn't hear your last confession." There was a shuffling movement between the four of them, looking almost like agreement.

"Repeat after me," the woman prompted. Dazed, Julie focused on her instead. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…"

Julie's mouth was numb. She had to have misheard--blood loss, shock, fear, panic dulling her senses? Her fingers were sticky and bloody, grasping at those things coming out of her stomach that she knew she needed, and they wanted to talk _confession_?

Dull anger--no, fuck you, _wrath_ \--surged through her veins.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," the woman prompted again, impatiently now.

"Yes, you have," Julie whispered dully, trembling. Natalie's pin bit into her hand suddenly. What was one more pain stacked up on the others?

Julie glanced behind her, seeing a flash of a dark haired, sleeping angel, and closed her eyes, tears leaking out from under her lids. She knew what happened now. She dreamed it, and it was true and it was happening. Her wrath eased out of her, soothed by her resignation.

"Your confession?" The woman prompted, more tersely than before.

"I have nothing to confess."

 _Oh, Natalie_ , she thought suddenly, regretfully. _I'm so sorry._

The hammer came down on Julie's head and the rest of her dream came true.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of John’s journal entries are mine. You can check them out on the official website [here](http://supernatural.warnerbros.com/) (they’re in the journal, which is on the floor of the backseat).

_Sammy has finally started sleeping through the night, and now that Dean shares a bed with him, he's out like a light as well. But me… I close my eyes and she's there. It always starts the same, I'm seeing her as she was before that night, beautiful and happy and alive. And I'm not seeing it, I'm living it, it's like I'm there… it's so real, I know I can reach out and touch her. And so I do… I reach out… and suddenly I'm back to that night, to the blood and the fire and Mary, Mary is on the ceiling, and how did she get on the ceiling… she can't be on the ceiling…_

 _Here's the weird part. When I wake up, sweating and panting… I swear there is something there. I can feel it, hovering over me, over my boys. It's watching, it's waiting, I think it's even mocking me… You couldn't stop this. You couldn't keep her safe._

 _You can't keep them safe._

John Winchester's journal, December 11, 1983.

 

\-----

 

A horn blared loudly in his ear, bleating with the futile anger of frustrated drivers everywhere. He jerked awake, his hands shooting out right and forward. He was bracing against the door and glove compartment before he was even aware that he was conscious. Then, all around him, the car slowly pulled into a turn.

Once the car smoothed out of it, he sat up quickly, rubbing feeling back into his numb cheek as he ignored the fire from where his head hit the cold glass of the passenger side window. He made a face, preparing to complain about the hostile sleeping situation.

And then he looked-- _really_ looked.

Though he tried to be nonchalant about it, his heart was thudding madly in his chest as he mentally ran over the facts--quickly, logically, thoroughly, just how his dad had taught him.

He didn't recognize the interior of the car. He didn't recognize the place outside of the car. And, most importantly, he didn't recognize the _driver_.

He had no weapons on him. His neck was achy and his mouth felt like he'd been munching on cotton. More worryingly, his mind was sluggish and slow, like he was still struggling to break through to full consciousness.

Outside, it was raining hard, so hard that it sounded like an avalanche of tiny rocks was hitting the roof of the car. The slick asphalt all around reflected red and green smears from the traffic lights. Windshield wipers worked furiously on fogged up glass in front of him, fighting a never ending, futile battle against the heavy rain.

Some kind of Christian talk was coming out of the radio, pitched low but sounding vaguely preachy, and the unknown driver nodded her head lightly to it every once in a while, as if agreeing. Her black hair just barely brushed her shoulders with this movement, skidding gently over the fabric of a cheap business suit.

Finally, he shivered, closing his eyes for a moment as he surrendered himself to the inevitable truth--this was _so_ not where he was last. He rubbed the back of his hand over his lips. His head was pounding sullenly. He felt nauseous and sick and all too aware of his brother's absence in the car.

Reacting to his low, shaky sigh, the driver suddenly noticed he was awake. She reached out to turn the radio off. "Samuel?" she asked gently. There was a high note of awkwardness in her voice, like she was hoping she wouldn't have to talk to him. Her eyes were directed away from him and on the road.

Sam Winchester stared at her profile warily. She wasn't young, but she was young- _ish_ \--somewhere in her late twenties, maybe? She wasn't quite pretty either, but she could have been, maybe, if she smiled more. A fragile pair of glasses was tucked tightly on the bridge of her nose. It made her look faintly owlish.

Sam licked his lips, remembering her suddenly. He remembered how the red of her fingernails had clashed with the faded orange of the hotel room table. He remembered her talking to him, softly, her arm around his shoulder. He remembered how long it took for her to touch him, like she was afraid that he sweated acid or something. He remembered... letting her in, maybe?

Sam rubbed his temples. The memories of her were vague, haphazardly stitched together in a colorful, confusing mess. He hadn't had this much trouble remembering a simple event since his last concussion, so he tried to remember if he'd hit his head or something. He remembered falling, yes, but no actual pain.

Why did he fall? When did he fall? More importantly, why was he here?

"Where am I?" he asked finally, his voice coming out in a hoarse croak.

The woman pulled her eyes from the road long enough to glance at the map spread open on the seat between them. "Maryland?"

Sam pulled his hands from his face to stare at her. Her confidence wasn't inspiring.

 _Madison,_ he thought suddenly, staring at her again. _Or Mason. Some name that starts with-_

Sam shook his head. "No, why-"

"I told you this before, Samuel, remember?" Her voice was strained. "We're going to Saint Mary's. It's a, a private school. For… people like you."

 _That's right_ , he thought after a moment. He rested his head against the window. He remembered that part too.

He was going away to school and he was leaving hunting behind. Sam smiled, content to leave that be for a moment, but the good feeling didn't last long. Things didn't add up, and Sam wasn't consistently labeled a nerd in school for nothing. He was _observant_ , damn it, and he'd probably be dead by now if he wasn't. To a hunter, life and death was decided on the strength of one's instincts, and Sam's were screaming about foul play.

But things just weren't clicking in his head. His overall level of grogginess wasn't helping at all. He felt like he was swimming underwater during a storm, straining to understand what was being said above water.

But one thing stuck out in his mind. He pulled his head away from the window, and looked at her again, this time under suspiciously lowered eyes. "Dad would never let me just… leave," he said accusingly.

She didn't seem like a terribly good persuader either--not that John could be persuaded. John Winchester pulled off more cons than most people had names for, and he was as stubborn as hell. Even a particularly well structured, persuasive argument failed to make a dent in what he felt was 'right' or 'needed to be done'.

The woman's eyes never left the road, but her fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "Your Father thought it would be best."

Sam stared at her for another few minutes, but doubt started to set in--doubt in himself. He looked out of window quickly, not really seeing anything anymore. He remembered John suddenly, vividly. He remembered their last words to each other and, like most words between them nowadays, they weren't good.

Their last fight had been pretty bad and, worst of all, Sam hadn't really seen it coming until it broke. He questioned too many orders, according to Dean, always asking _why, why not_. Sam bit his lip hard, suddenly worried.

Maybe… maybe John had thought the fight was bad too. Too bad to get over. Too bad to forgive Sam for. Confronted with the possibility that John would never, ever forgive him, Sam felt miserable and small, the bright note of school on the horizon dimming impossibly as a result.

The implausibility of the situation seemed to matter very little all of the sudden as Sam's thoughts ran wild. John was all pro-family, pro-keeping them together, pro-protecting Sam, but maybe he decided that Sam wasn't worth it after all. Maybe he thought it was best to cut his losses and just stick with the good son before the bad one got them all killed.

"That's so _stupid_ ," he blustered suddenly. He turned to her, his temper rising. "Dad would never, ever do that!" Especially if it was something that meant sending Sam off to school.

Especially if it was something that Sam, in his heart of hearts, really wanted.

She spared a second to glance at him, needle-thin eyebrows bunching together. "Are you experiencing wrath, Samuel?"

"No, and it's _Sam_ ," he snapped scathingly. He thought suddenly of the readjusting he'd have to do all over again, and groaned. "I was doing just fine in public school."

Fuming for a moment, Sam quickly directed his gaze out the window, trying to find stability in the smeared lights and drenched streets. Was it really so bad that he didn't want to be a hunter? He didn't want _any_ of them to be a hunter, to be honest, but he was the only one he had control over.

That was why he and John fought so much. Sam knew what he wanted to do just as keenly as he knew what he didn't want to do. He wanted to go to school. He wanted to be someone, do something. He wanted it, and he made no secret of it. Many of their fights centered on his preference of college over hunting.

So what was this? _What the hell are you trying to play now, Dad?_ Sam scowled at his reflection. There was no way John Winchester had decided, out of the goodness of his heart, to let his youngest out of his sight.

"To justify sin is to extend sin," the driver said unexpectedly.

Jerked out of his imaginings by her darkly worded comment, Sam stared at her, incredulous, before turning his gaze back to the window again. "You've gotta be kidding me..." he muttered to himself.

But the comment had done what his confusion had not--forced him to think about the present instead of the past.

Saint Mary's. That had to be a religious school, right?

He bit his lip, looked over at her, and then said, in a more conciliatory tone, "I want to talk to my dad."

The tense expression on the woman's face smoothed out suddenly. "I'm sorry, but he said he was going on a trip. He'll be out of contact for a few weeks." She said it hurriedly, like she had practiced it in her head. She even managed to thrown in a forced smile. "We have his number. You can try to contact him later."

Sam sank back in his seat, deflating. John had given her his _number_. That made it official, right? John handed out his phone numbers grudgingly and rarely, and he only gave them, his kids, his current number when he knew they weren't going to be in his sight for a few days.

 _Why, Dad?_

Maybe John was trying to make a point. Or maybe he was giving up on Sam. Sam kept coming back to that point, circling around it, gnawing on it, obsessing over it. Because he knew who John's best son was, and it sure wasn't Sam Winchester.

Sam bit his lip, twisting his seat belt in his hands. His miserable imaginings kept him silent all the way up to Saint Mary's gates, and, by the time they did, his mouth tasted like copper.

 

\-----

 

Saint Mary's School was a collection of small buildings surrounding a chapel. All of it was enclosed by a huge, tall fence that wrapped protectively--jealously--around the property. The car parked just outside the fence, rolling nervously over rain drenched mud. They took the rest of the way by foot, let in the gates by a man who had a thick, white piece of gauze strapped over his eye.

Sam barely spared him more than a glance, nor did he scrutinize too closely the thin concrete paths they were supposed to walk on, or the statue they had just passed. No, he was too busy looking at the buildings themselves, warring between unavoidable excitement and instinctive dread, somewhat nerdy curiosity and a teenager's need to express total indifference.

It was a _church_. He loved churches! He suppressed his giddy smile, but not his wandering, eager eyes.

The chapel itself was a tall, white building, tapering off into the sky. Everything about it was thin and emaciated, from the windows to the doors to the scraggy little cross at the top. Paint peeled off the walls in thick sheets, exposing the wood underneath. But just under the church, he got a sense of how big it was--how expansive the inside must be. It was bigger than most hotels they stayed in--taller and with more open space.

But they didn't go inside. As they passed the church in favor of the building on the left, Sam noticed that the back part of the chapel jutted out suddenly to the left, as if to accommodate another room. That too was large.

After nearly tripping, Sam focused his gaze forward, watching his sneakers squish over the flooded path in front of them, the pale hint of concrete under their feet nearly completely obscured by mud and wriggling worms. The rain had tapered off a bit, but everything--including Sam--was still cold and wet.

There were two buildings other than the chapel, he would learn later. The one they were going to--casually called the student building--that consisted of two stories of dorms and a ground floor, which held the class rooms. The other building--usually called the staff building--consisted of laundry, storage spaces, and the eating area on the main floor. Students were restricted from the second and third floors of the other building, as those were the private quarters of the permanent staff.

As they walked up to the student building, they passed two older girls in heavy jackets and scarves. They had pink faces. The one with heavy eyeshadow met his gaze for a long while, then leaned over to whisper something to her friend, who giggled. His face blazing, Sam sped up behind the driver, now his guide, climbing up the stairs behind her.

Even though he hurried through, he did not fail to notice the worn locks that hung ominously off the building's door. He could only wonder at their intended use.

A heavy set woman was waiting for them inside the hallway. She wore a full habit, her austere face framed by the hood over her head. He'd barely stepped in the threshold of the door before he asked, again, if he could call his dad, hoping that the older woman would have a better answer that his driver. Instead, all he seemed to do was set her off into lecture.

"Due to the sensitive and introspective nature of the education here, communication will be strictly controlled. If you wish to contact your family, you must first discuss the matter with us." She had the faintest English accent, Sam noticed. It was present only when she shaped her mouth around certain vowels.

"Do not try to work around this," Sam's driver said quietly. He looked quickly at her. The woman's earlier nervousness seemed to flee once they entered the property lines, replaced by some sort of exhausted relief. "The rules are here for your safety."

"Indeed." The nun bobbed her head. They started walking down the hall toward the twin set of stairs at the back. "However, your compliance will not go unrewarded. Should you follow the rules, you will be allowed one monthly excursion to Ilchester, complete with allowance--but under supervision, of course." Her mild expression suddenly turned stern as she looked at him. "If you misbehave during this trip, however, you will never obtain permission to leave this school again. No exceptions."

They passed several closed doors. Noises rose from behind each one, rising and falling over silence. Sam glanced in an open one, noticing a group of round faced, sullen children staring at a dour looking man.

"Later, Samuel." His driver nudged him along. She touched his shoulder briefly, pulling away quickly like she'd burnt herself.

The nun continued to speak. "You will be expected to attend class regularly. You will have a morning class and an afternoon class and each will be two hours long."

Sam perked up at the idea of class. "Oh, what classes are available?"

"Theology, theological literature, theological history, and theological theory," the nun replied in a clipped tone, clearly not appreciating the question. Sam wilted. "After your morning class, you will be expected to attend mass. After mass, you may go to breakfast. Between breakfast and lunch, you will be assigned various chores around the school--and no, you may not choose what chores."

The lady was giving him a stare, like his one, reasonable question was reason enough to expect a thousand stupid ones. Sam tried not to be too offended, realizing she was probably judging him based on his clothes. He wasn't exactly wearing rags, but everyone else was wearing clean, well fitted uniforms--the guys in ties and slacks and the girls in ties and skirts.

He must have looked like a drowned rat to her.

They kept walking.

"Lunch will be served at 12, and only at 12," the nun continued. "After lunch, you will have your afternoon class. After class, you will be expected to, of course, do your homework, as well as any chores we may assign you. Most importantly, however, you are expected to go to the chapel for one hour for self-guided reflections of your sins. It does not matter when you go. It only matters that you do this once daily." She glanced at him, her dark gray eyes narrow. "On that matter, do note that access to the chapel is _severely_ restricted to students, as students regularly disrupt the work of our staff. You may do your reflection between the hours of two and six. If you are found in the chapel outside of those times, and without a decent excuse, you will be punished. All privileges will be revoked, immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

Sam nodded quickly, wanting to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. "Yes, ma'am. Uh, Sister. Is there anything else I need to know?"

They started heading up a flight of stairs to the next story. Sam was sandwiched between the driver and the nun and was instantly aware of the poor temperature control of the building. Although it was cold outside, it was pretty humid on the stairs. Sam started to feel a little dizzy, and gripped the railing harder to remain upright.

"You have much to learn," the nun said flatly. She sighed. "Students at Saint Mary's are expected to conform themselves to a certain code of rules, Samuel. For instance, you will be expected to wear your uniform--and _in the correct manner_ ," she said, darkly addressing the last bit to a girl bouncing past. She looked about Sam's age--pretty and cheerful. Her smile immediately fell and, self-consciously, she tugged her skirt down, even though the cloth already hung well below her knees.

The nun continued sharply, saying, "The basic rules are as follows: no alcohol, no trespassing, no blasphemy, no trying to work around our restrictions, and absolutely _no_ fornication." She reached the top step, then turned around, looking down at him.

Sam froze on the fourth step to the top, realizing that the nun was staring at him intently like she expected him to _fornicate_ right there in front of her. His hand tightened further on the railing until his fingers ached. He blushed as an entirely new kind of shame swamped him suddenly.

Finally, she nodded, saying, "That will be all." She turned and walked down the hallway, gesturing to the fifth door down. "This is your room. Keep in mind what I told you." With that, the woman passed him, heading back for the stair case.

Sam let out a low, heavy sigh, watching as his driver opened his door. He followed her inside slowly, noticing a suitcase was already on the small single bed. He looked around quickly, but there wasn't much to see--one bed, one desk, a small closet, and a whole lot of empty, gray wall. It looked like a prison cell.

"You are fortunate, Samuel. This place is a good place for you." The woman turned away from him, unzipping the bag. "Free room and board, free education. We provide for all."

"Is that why you wouldn't let me pack anything?" 'Of my own' went unsaid. He recognized nothing she pulled out of the suitcases.

The woman froze for a moment before painting on a benign smile. "Saint Mary's has a strict policy on outside items. We are a place of learning, not dillydallying." Her expression, though purposefully polite, was pained. "Go. Make friends. There are a few other people in your age group here."

She turned away, the gesture a dismissal. Sam hovered for a moment, then went back the way they came--down the hall of bedrooms, down the stairs, down the hall of classrooms. He slowed when he reached the ground floor, noticing that the walls echoed with the lectures of classes. A trained instinct in him, the desire not to interfere in anyone's education, made him walk softly and head quickly for a door to the outside.

Once he got outside, he found himself faced with two equally unappealing decisions: go to the church (his enthusiasm had been rather dampened by the nun) or head across campus to the other building (and under a cover of renewed rain fall). Since he was pretty sure it wasn't two o'clock yet, that left his options pretty limited.

Sam rubbed his hands together indecisively as the cold crept deep in his bones. He started to walk down the steps but stopped, noticing a new obstacle. Another boy, bundled up in three layers of clothes, sat on the rain slicked bottom step, forcing reddened thin fingers to move fluidly over slightly damp paper.

After hesitating a little longer, Sam went down the rest of the steps, edging around the guy carefully. He noted the notebook balanced on his thighs, the small knife and a pencil set by his hip.

The image on the paper grabbed his attention most strongly. It was a mess of graphite and lines, smudges of lead making up new details and obscuring others. A slumped, figure was bending backwards over the arm of another figure. Square figures with noses and mouths but no eyes crowded around it, as if looking on, chubby, circular hands clasped together at the chest.

"New here, aren't you," the boy said without preamble. His hand stilled over the paper, as if aware of Sam's scrutiny.

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. "I just came today."

"Yeah," the boy said. He looked up, blue eyes narrowing. He had a pale, pointed face and thin lips. "I can tell." After a moment of silent consideration, he pointed to himself. "1983."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"Classes are organized by birth year," he said flatly, like he thought Sam was stupid. "Everything's organized by birth year, really."

"Oh. I'm… 1983 too."

The other kid nodded and went back to what he was doing. Several minutes passed without comment.

Feeling awkward, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, and then said, "So, how are the classes?"

"An exercise in patience and self-control," the kid said casually. He picked up the sharpening knife in his right hand, grasp light on it like he was testing the weight. "You won't see me in class much."

Sam frowned. "Why not?"

The boy looked up, and then there was a flash of moment--an arm, a hand, a streak of gray.

More startled than in pain, Sam staggered back, holding a hand to his bleeding arm, his sleeve split all the way to the skin.

The boy smiled, lightly, mockingly. Sam's blood tainted the end of his knife. "Because I'm a _freak_. And, guess what, new guy? So are you."

A low growl rumbled up from behind them. "Ansem!" The source was a lanky black boy. He scaled the steps quickly, stopped just left of Sam's shoulder. "What the hell did you do that for?" He sounded furious.

"Oh, look. If it isn't Captain Goody Two Shoes," the boy--Ansem--muttered. Even though his tone was one of affected boredom, he'd immediately shot to his feet when the guy came down the stairs, hastily backing up a few paces. He stood stiffly now, back unnaturally straight as if to defend against the new guy's sheer height. "Just showing the new kid the pecking order."

"Apologize. Now." The tall boy hovered menacingly. "Or I'll go to Father Thompson."

There was murderous flare of hatred in Ansem's pale eyes. A second later, it was gone. "Sorry, or whatever." Ansem tucked his notebook under his arm and walked off. "See you later, losers."

The other guy watched Ansem retreat before turning to Sam. "1983?" he asked, eying Sam warily.

"Yeah. I mean, me too." Then, sick of this style of introduction, Sam stuck out his unbloodied hand. "Sam Winchester."

Now that Ansem was gone, the other boy's eyes glinted with good humor. "Jake Talley."

"Hiya, Jake."

For a minute, they just grinned at each other. Sam couldn't help it--he felt an immediate affinity with the other guy.

Then Jake's eyes fell to Sam's arm, and his smile fell with it.

"We can still report him," he offered reluctantly.

"No, it's fine." Sam shrugged. "I don't want to be known as the guy who gets into a fight on his first day of school."

"Trust me, don't worry about it," the other boy said, waving his hand. "They aren't ever going to kick you out." He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Ansem's retreating back. "Ansem pulls shit like this on a daily basis, and he's been here as long as I have. Longer, I think."

Sam frowned, curious. "How long have you been here?"

"Since I was eight," Jake said distantly, his eyes riveted to Sam's arm. His eyebrows knitted together in a concerned expression. "You sure you're okay, man?"

Sam pulled his hand away from the wound. It was jagged and thin, slicing very shallowly across the back of his wrist. "It's just a scratch."

Just as he closed his mouth around the last syllable of that word, a voice boomed across the property.

And, wow, was it a loud voice. Though it came from a distant place, it rose like thunder in the big, empty space, but fell on the air like the echoes of the dead, vibrating back and forth between the walls of the buildings. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck rose.

"Rickety old Bailey," Jake said in an undertone, shifting uncomfortably.

"Bailey?" Sam echoed in an equally quiet voice.

"The head priest," he muttered. "You'll recognize him the second he talks." From their vantage point, they saw the church doors suddenly fling open, the form of a student quickly stumbling out. Jake winced. "Some idiot must've snuck in there. Poor guy."

A tall, thin man followed the student out. He had a pair of thick glasses on his face that barely obscured the pallid tone of his skin. He wore a black cassock. It swished around his legs as he stalked after the student. His voice rose impressively from that deceptively skinny body as he demanded that the student stop running.

Bewildered, Sam turned to Jake. "Since when do people get in trouble for willingly coming to church?"

Raising an eyebrow, Jake snorted at him, crossing his arms over his chest. "You sure got a lot to learn."

He was right.

 

\-----

 

The very next day was Sam's first day of class.

A dark haired, hyper active kid--Andy, he learned later--barged into his room about ten minutes after the morning church bells rang, talking a mile a minute about class and what he needed to do, shoving notebooks, a Bible, and extra socks on him before pushing him out the door. Sam looked longingly after the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, only to be shoved harder.

"You don't have _time_ for that, new guy!"

Sam was hurried down the stairs, directed to a room about three doors down. He'd thought he'd like it--having his room so close to the classrooms--but he immediately decided that he didn't. The classrooms had the same unfortunate, musty smell and were only about three times as wide.

He took a second to look around, ignoring how Andy sailed past him. A cross hung on the back wall just under a clock. Yellowing depictions of the Ten Commandments and various other biblical stories covered every inch of the wall not occupied by the windows or a chalkboard.

The chalkboard itself was a long, austere affair, abnormally clean where it hung on the wall next to him. An equally clean podium stood in front of that, and next to that podium was a low, wooden desk. Pages from an open book stirred under the force of the wind that came from a permanently rusted open window.

After ten minutes, Sam would truly appreciate the afterthought of socks, only regretting not grabbing an extra shirt or six. But for now, he was warm and only passingly noticed the rust before he turned his full attention to the students in front of him.

There were about fifteen people in the class, the sum of the student of two combined years--1982 and 1983. Apparently, it mattered where you sat, because any two years mixed about as well as oil and water. He'd made the mistake of sitting in the front by the 1982 kids, only to get dark looks and sneers when they realized he belonged to 1983.

Year segregation was the new clique, and, as usual, Sam was behind on the times.

He got the picture quickly, though. He moved to the back with the equally wary 1983 group, who warmed up a bit when they realized he was their age. He took the aisle seat of a long, fragile table occupied by Andy and a girl.

The girl, who had dark hair and a cherubic face, wasted no time introducing herself ("I'm Ava! Where're you from?"), giving him a pen to borrow when he admitted to not having one.

Andy watched them quietly, waiting for a lull in their (mostly Ava's) conversation before he leaned back in his seat and reached around the back of Ava's seat. He introduced himself, gripping Sam's hand in a handshake.

"Sorry, man. Class, you know…" And then he shrugged, smiling, and Sam, knowing what he was talking about, instantly forgave him. "Shoulda told you about that too." He jerked his chin toward the other half of the class, who seemed to huddle in together to not-stare at Sam over their shoulders.

"It's fine." It seemed like Sam was going to have to say that a lot at this school. Who knew? Maybe after saying it for the hundredth time, he'd start believing it too.

"Year sits with year," Andy continued, shrugging. "In everything. Our rooms are near each other's too. I don't know why. That's just the way they set us up, I guess." At Sam's confused look, he clarified, saying, "The school."

"Oh," Sam said. An awkward pause ensued.

Everyone was watching him, he realized--Andy expectantly, Ava cheerfully, everyone else sneakily. Sam looked around, trying to find something to look at other than other students. He turned half-way in his chair, noticing that Ansem was there too, sitting at the table behind him, but his head was on the desk. Sam was fairly sure he was still sleeping.

The door opened near the front of the room, letting in more stragglers. The second person through the door was Jake, who looked distracted. Seeing Sam, he smiled, his expression brightening as he crossed over the floor in five easy steps.

Jake went for the aisle seat behind Sam, nudging his shoulder affably as he passed. "Hey, man. Forgot to tell you about class yesterday." He sat down next to Ansem, letting his Bible fall to the table with a loud crack. Ansem jerked awake, his eyes wild.

Sam had relaxed at the familiar face. "It's okay," he said easily, even managing a smile. "Andy told me."

"Good." Expression sobering, Jake tapped the eraser end of his pencil to the cover of the book in front of him. "Just so you know, you gotta learn your way around the Bible to get by in this class."

"I know my way around the Bible," Sam protested. Unlike his family, he at least read it.

"He doesn't mean the feel-good bits like Genesis or Exodus, but the _real_ Bible," Ansem said unexpectedly. His groggy expression slid into a smile, and the his smile widened like a shark's, toothy and mean. He propped his chin on his palm, eyeing Sam. "The really gnarly shit."

Before Sam could say anything, the door opened again, letting in a woman--a nun, really. She strode to the front of the room in a full habit, her head held high and a book tucked under her arm. She was pale and had a long, lined face, which was half-obscured by thick glasses.

"Sister Elizabeth," Andy whispered under cover of a cough.

The sister--their teacher, apparently--ignored the desk for the podium, sharply setting her book down before she looked up at the class. "Open your Bibles to Revelation," she commanded. "Start where we left off yesterday."

Ava leaned closer to Sam, helpfully showing him the right passage. She got a glare from the nun for her Good Samaritanism and wilted back into her chair.

"Ava," Elizabeth prompted. She abandoned the podium and the book, her arms crossed behind her back. "Read, please." She started walking down the aisle, eyes sweeping back and forth over bowed heads.

Next to Sam, Ava let out an almost inaudible sigh. Then she said, "'Then the kings of the earth and the magnates and the generals and the rich and the powerful and everyone, slave or free, hid in the caves and among the rocks of the mountains, calling to the mountains and rocks, 'Fall on us and hide us from the face of the one seated on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of their wrath has come and who is able to stand?'"

There was silence in the room--heavy and unbroken. Everyone was sitting with their shoulders slumped, their eyes averted. Sam lifted his head, confused. Parables, he understood. Not… _this_.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. "What does this passage mean?" No one raised their hand. The nun nodded to herself, as if she expected it from them. "It speaks of Judgment Day. It speaks of the wrath of God, who knows of your wickedness. It speaks of people who thought themselves above God's Law fleeing the reality of God's wrath. It speaks of them begging for death because of their fear."

The nun continued walked down the aisle, addressing all and none of them--that is, until she stood near Sam. She looked at him then, gaze never wavering. "You live in sin now and care little, but mark my words. God will have the final say."

She said it like it was a threat. Sam held his breath until she walked away, then he settled against the back of his seat. What the _hell_?

A folded up piece of paper bounced on Sam's desk from somewhere behind him. Palming it carefully, Sam unfolded it in his lap, reading it quickly.

 _Having fun yet?_ Sam looked up from the note, then over his shoulder. Jake made little whirling motions by his ear, then put his head back down on his arms.

Sam turned back to the front. _This is it,_ he decided numbly. John's master plan.

John wasn't religious, and while he didn't chase his boys away from religion entirely, he always treated Sam's faith with a measure of distaste, like it was a fault that Sam needed to learn to work around or overcome. So it didn't make sense that he'd send his youngest away to Bible Camp 101... unless he knew it was a super religious private school.

So religious that Sam, who always enjoyed logic and academics, would be turned off by it entirely. So unbelievably _zealous_ that simple Sammy would generalize his one bad experience to religion in general.

Sam's mouth tightened. Now that he thought about it, their last fight had been about religion too--specifically about something Pastor Jim had said to him about ghosts. John did not understand why Sam would take the pastor's word over his. Sam did not understand why John pretended to be a better expert at spirituality than a pastor.

The last thing John Winchester liked was having his knowledge questioned, especially when it was by Sam.

Groaning quietly, Sam let his head hit the table. He wasn't here because of a bad fight. He was here because that bad fight was _still going on._

Hell hath no fury like John Winchester trying to make a point.

How long did he have to stay here?


	3. Chapter Two

_Last night I was sitting in Sam and Dean’s room, in the dark, and I heard these noises… Mike said it was the wind, and okay, maybe it was, but it sounded almost like whispering, like someone was whispering a name, under their breath, again and again… like something is out there in the dark, watching us… I stayed up all night, just watching them, protecting them. From what, I don’t know. Am I protecting them? Am I hurting them? I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side – or from his brother. Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night._

John Winchester's journal, December 4, 1983.

 

\-----

 

Months passed. Months and weeks and days flew by all too quickly, and all without a peep from John or Dean. The lack of communication made Sam nervous, but he focused on school and getting by.

September passed by slowly, as did October, November, and December. Saint Mary’s barely touched the holidays unless it served a purpose. Halloween was met with a fervor, a week long lecture on Hell and sin. Thanksgiving passed without much notice and Christmas was dissertation on how worthless they all were in the eyes of God.

Saint Mary’s interpretation of Catholicism left much to be desired, he learned quickly. It was heavy on apocalyptic literature and sin, and light on things like charity and good will.

And, like the education at the school, communication with the outside world was also limited. Worse yet, it was monitored, but Sam didn’t much care about that. Why get upset about people monitoring your conversations when there were no conversations to be had?

And maybe there was a little bitterness in that thought, but it was justified. John Winchester was a man of few words, but his current silence was taking it to a whole new level.

Sam got two letters in the beginning of the term, short and to the point.

The first one read _Moving now. Changing contact information_.

Sam had run his fingers over the type, trying to remember the last time he saw his father using a typewriter. Once, maybe, or twice--one finger at a time. John preferred written correspondence because it was easy to do and made it easy to identify the author. So why had he typed it?

Of course, Sam realized, there was always the looming threat of the authorities finally catching on to years and years of credit card scams. Maybe John was trying to remove himself from the grid even more. Writing could be traced. As far as Sam knew, typewriters could not.

So Sam was not surprised when the second letter was also typed, and equally as brief. It contained contact information, a single telephone number with no identifying marks.

The same day, under close watch, Sam called John, but didn’t get a response. He tried three times more, leaving messages behind--even asking John to write him again if he couldn’t talk. John never responded. Maybe he thought what little contact he’d given Sam was sufficient.

Such _bullshit_.

The thing that probably bothered Sam the most about all this was the complete lack of mention of Dean. And, of course, by extension, Christmas. He expected John to disappoint, but _Dean_. Dean’s whole mission was not to disappoint, especially not during Christmas.

Sam couldn’t care less about the holiday, but Dean did. He clung to the stupid thing with almost religious zeal, poking and prodding at Sam until he reluctantly got involved in the festivities--drinking egg nog, watching bad Christmas movies, eyeing the makeshift tree just in case it caught on fire again.

That was why Sam _knew_ Dean was coming. He had to come. Sam waited every day by the gates, watching for the Impala--because even if his dad said no, Dean was 19 and _he had a freaking car_. He’d come. Dean did not negotiate Christmas.

Meanwhile, Sam waited and the temperature steadily dropped. It started raining more and more often, freezing rain coming down in heavy torrents like they were in the middle of some biblical flood. The concrete paths flooded over and there wasn’t a single floor of any building that didn’t marked with the telling imprint of one shoe or another. More than one student was tasked with the chore of sweeping out mud by the bucketfuls.

People got sick--Sam got sick. Nothing to really _write home about_ , but he had to suffer through congestion and a runny nose and deep, chest aching coughs, just like everyone else.

Despite all that, he still waited for Dean, watching the gates like a hawk under the overhang of this or that building.

Sam’s diligence did not go unnoticed. While walking to class, he found himself trying to explain to one year mate, Ava, that he wasn't going to stay much longer, that his brother was going to pick him up any minute, only to hear a twelve year old echo the same thing down the hall. He stopped to listen to it, hearing the plaintive whine in what he thought was a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

"What was that, Sam?"

Sam’s mouth clicked shut. "Nothing." He resolved to never say it out loud.

But that didn’t stop him from missing his family, didn’t stop him from missing Dean. Didn’t stop him from waiting, didn’t stop him from watching, didn’t stop him from making his cold worse.

And so Christmas came, and Christmas went.

Dean never showed up.

 

\-----

 

Early January came with a nip of winter. Sam was restless. He’d been in bed for the last week, battling out a fever under the watchful eye of a rather unsympathetic member of the staff. That night, the first night free of the man’s suspicious stare, he kinda snapped. He’d had just about enough--of everything.

Eyes were watching him _all the time_. He could never close the door while he was awake unless he was studying. Even then, he could only do so under a barrage of seemingly innocent 'checks'. The 'checks' were more lax during the evening hours, like now, stopping well before midnight, but Sam took precautions, stuffing his bed with pillows and clean clothes so it looked like someone was there, sleeping.

He closed his door behind him, padding quietly down the hall. He needed his own place, where he wasn't watched, where he couldn't hear the snores of other kids rattling through his painfully thin walls. He needed _privacy_ , a place to cool his head, and he didn’t care if he had to break the rules to get it.

The outside was damn near freezing, but the sky was clear, for once. Between the lack of rain and Sam’s multiple layers, he was actually feeling pretty fine as he moved down the building steps, heading across the property to the looming shadow of the church.

Sam had been in the chapel a few times, but never without intense supervision. The staff here kept their eyes sharp, like they thought the students were going to up and run off with a pew, or something.

But Sam knew there was a room off in the chapel, a room rarely used by the staff. The entrance was actually barred from the main chapel and locked firmly. The room had been under renovation for years and they were only just starting to work on it again.

He'd circled the chapel earlier than month, so he knew he could get in through a small window. The outside door, for whatever reason, didn't even have a damn knob, so Sam ignored it, kicking over a bucket so he could reach the window. With a few few prods and curses, the window swung inward, leaving Sam barely enough room to shimmy himself inside.

Once in, he found himself stepping on a table that was once set out for candles but was now just dusty. He dropped down to the floor, shivering a bit as he looked around the room. It was tiny, almost closet sized--nowhere near the dimensions suggested by the outside.

Curious to see what else was there, Sam lurched forward the step and a half it took to hit the door, quietly turning the knob.

He entered the larger room slowly, surprised at what he saw.

It was another chapel--an old one tarnished by disuse and time. Heavy cobwebs were draped over this and that, and the pews were slightly crooked. That was all he could see in the dim light provided by the nearly completely boarded up stained glass windows, so it was with caution that he edged forward, using the line of pews as his guide.

Sam shivered again. It was just as cold in there as it was outside, but he was finally alone. Something tight in his chest slowly relaxed. He didn’t have to pretend here. He didn’t have to make-believe he was okay.

Because he was not okay. Not by a long shot.

Frowning to himself, Sam rummaged through the detritus of discarded items on the last pew, managing to find a slightly soft match and a nub of a candle. He lit the candle, and then, light raised high, turned slowly in a circle to peer at forgotten chapel.

Using the small light it produced, Sam started walking around the room. He wondered why it was closed up in the first place. It looked like it was private chapel, better made than the main chapel with the walls of stone rather than cheap wood. Dust coated everything. Despite that, Sam couldn't help but be charmed by the place. It had character written into its very walls and it was everything Sam thought a church should be--minus the presence of the faithful. And a maid.

An abandoned altar stood at the front of the room. He started to approach it, oddly mesmerized by the flat table, but then his attention was snared by something by his feet--black streaks that slashed against the hard floor.

Hot wax dripped down his fingers as he bent down closer to look. He shook his hand reflexively, uselessly, accidentally extinguishing the light. The chapel darkened once more as Sam dropped the candle entirely, rubbing the cooling wax from his hands.

Sam eyed the candle on the floor, watching as it rolled all the way to the altar, stopping just as it hit the corner. _Crap_. He sighed, squinting at his hand. _Aren’t you a graceful one?_

He didn’t want to find a new match, so he found a patch of moonlight. It was thin and diffused, having barely escaped the boarded cover of the stained glass window. After wiping the pew free of dust, Sam sat and pulled a notebook from under his shirt.

But then he paused, frozen in place. There was sudden pressure in his ears--murmurs, whispers, gentle voices.

Sam strained to hear, slowly rising. " _What?_ "

He jerked out of his daze when the sharp end of his uncapped pen suddenly stabbed him in the thigh with the shift. He fell back down into the pew rather abruptly, sending dust flying everywhere.

Suddenly, the air was foreboding, heavy. The voice rose, raising higher in pitch--painful, painful pitch, like the dying screams of a tortured radio. Sam’s hair was rising at the back of his neck. He looked around the suddenly menacing chapel, hunching down lower in the pew.

There was nothing there--nothing external. His paranoia was all him, all internal--a holdover from the fever, maybe. He just needed to _calm the hell down_. He curled in a tighter ball and, deciding to ignore the pressure of that voice, he braced his notebook against his knees and pressed the pen to paper.

But the noise would not _stop_. It demanded to be acknowledged, to be _heard_. It rose in intensity, battering his ears for attention. Wincing, Sam clamped both hands over his ears, trying to shut it out, but it continued on and on, relentless. The paper and pen fell to the ground, unnoticed.

Sam was _scared_.

Almost unbidden, an image of his brother flashed in front of his eyes. It was as if Dean had materialized right there, just for him. For a moment, his head was cocked back, mouth pulled in a grin, hands stuck in Dad’s old leather jacket--just like Sam remembered him.

Then his smile smoothed into that regrettable, almost constant concern. Dean dropped to a knee in front of a pew, bracing a hand against the wood on one side of Sam’s leg.

He could hear his brother’s voice curling up in his head, like warm, protective smoke.

“ _You okay, Sammy?_ “

The pressure slowly eased off. Sam uncurled slowly, unaware of when the image of his brother faded, exactly. But it disappeared right as the noise started to retreat. Swallowing, Sam let his feet hit the ground again and listened carefully.

The piercing sound was completely gone. All he could hear was the faint creaking of the pew underneath him, the steady whistling of wind slicing through the broken window.

Bending over, Sam cautiously retrieved his dropped paper and pen, but the noise never returned.

It was as if it had never been there. _Weird._

Frowning, Sam started to write, squinting in the dim light. The words came easily, his earlier hurt about Dean’s absence fading with the simple recall of what it felt like to be in his brother’s presence.

Dean. I miss you. This place is seriously messed up. Tell Dad that, whatever he’s up to, he’d better knock it off. This place is not what I meant when I said I wanted to go off to school.

 

\-----

 

Birds chirped happily in the spring air, darting over their heads with infectious enthusiasm. Sam, though fond of nature, kept his head down, his eyes focused on paper.

 _Dear Dean, how are you? I’m fine. I think I’m starting to get used to Hell House. That’s what they call it here, and I think it fits. I’m sorry for how testy I got in my last letter, I’m just frustrated. But I was hoping you’d come and visit for my birthday, since you missed Christm-_

The rest of the word smeared out over the line as someone jostled his elbow. With practiced patience, Sam looked up at the offender, offering only raised eyebrows instead of a really bitchy huff.

Ava had a grin like the Cheshire Cat. “Writing love letters, Sammy-whammy?”

“It’s _Sam_.”

They were all outside, enjoying the nice day between classes. Like most years, they stuck together--while Ava, Andy, and Sam manned the blanket, Jake laid out in the grass just a few feet away, doing sit-ups.

Questions about Jake’s obsession with fitness were met by stammering and gruff requests for them to ‘shut your piehole’. So Ava and Andy usually avoided the topic, choosing to politely pretend that they didn't see him when he dropped down and did twenty, while Sam just looked on longingly.

One thing about John Winchester’s training he did miss was the constant exercise. He was not a lazy person by nature and was constantly restless. Hell House didn't offer many physical outlets beyond chores.

“Don’t be such a _bore_ ,” Ava was whining. She rolled over on the blanket, careful to avoid the grass and subsequent grass stains. She laid on her stomach, propping her face up with her hands. Her large, doe-like eyes sparkled at him fondly. “We only have a few minutes until they call us in for more spectacular tales of how we should all be burned at the stake for our wickedness.”

“Yay,” Andy delivered flatly from behind a book. He had a folded book cover in his lap proclaiming the life and autobiography of some guy they’d learned about in class a few months back.

But Andy wasn’t the type to reread. Suspicious, Sam squinted at the faded lettering of the book binding. _Nietzsche._

Sam smirked, rolling his eyes. Total contraband, the hypocrite, and from the guy who freaked out when his year mates stepped a single toe out of line! But books were different, Andy insisted time and time again. But that didn’t mean he advertised his deviance.

Sure enough, when a nun came by, severe mouth pulled into a frown, eyes darting over them like they’d done some grave, mortal sin by congregating together, Andy immediately repositioned the book cover to hide Nietzsche, hiding his alternative reading habits. Sneaky little bastard.

Andy looked up, expression somehow both tense and sheepish. Their eyes met over Ava’s head. When Andy smiled, Sam smiled back, no longer quite as annoyed.

Shaking his head lightly, a smile still lingering on his lips, Sam directed his attention back to his letter, trying to fix the mark Ava’s jostling created.

As he smoothly crossed out the word entirely, he sobered, thinking about Andy’s thirst for knowledge. If the lectures were light on what the students affectionately named the ‘feel-good’ parts of the Bible, then talk about other things, like mathematics and science and non-Christian philosophy, was completely nonexistent.

This worried Sam, and for a variety of reasons. How far behind were they on all their basic subjects? How would this education help them get into college? How would this place look on his application? Sam was already at a severe disadvantage because of his inconsistent, irregular schooling, but he at least had a well-rounded education in the hundred or so schools he’d been dunked into.

This was the longest he’d ever stayed at one school, but, for once, staying in one place wasn’t helpful. This school was anything but well rounded. Its curriculum was one sided and single minded. It was so single minded that the students _thirsted_ for outside knowledge. They wanted it so much that they’d smuggle in _calculus books_ just to look at the novel symbols.

Frowning, suddenly aware of movement, Sam sat up, scanning the property.

A priest crossed the grounds quickly, heading for the gate. He wore clerical clothes like every other member of the clergy at Saint Mary’s, but, unlike the priests, he wore a dark shirt, dark pants, and the white collar. Sam was so used to seeing Bailey and Thompson in those dark cassocks that a set of pants on a holy man was odd.

They were always on duty, Bailey argued. Hence the choice in clothes.

Sam watched the priest as he was let out through the gate, but his attention drifted, moving to the conspicuous circle of nothingness right before the chapel.

A statue used to mark the center of the property, but now it was probably laying in the trash, in pieces. Sam shifted uncomfortably, remembering the anger from the school staff when it was broken.

It was important, he gathered. There was talk amongst the staff about acknowledgment from Rome, which sounded really big and important. The statue was supposed to be a marble Saint Mary.

It was… well, it was a _statue_. The figure carved from stone looked pleasant in a bland, female way, like the artisan behind the piece had taken the pictures of fifty women and combined them all in one plain, average piece. Her hands had been pressed together, as if in prayer, but also as if she was being modest. Her eyes were closed.

Sam didn’t even realize it was hollow too until Ansem knocked it over and it broke. He didn’t think Ansem realized it either, because Ansem looked down on it, eyes wide with shock as he took in the shattered torso, the cracked head. But then he noticed everyone was staring at him, equally as horrified.

He tried to wave it off with ill-tempered bravado, even laughing about it. Sam thought he took it too far when he started marching around the property with Mary’s head on a stick, but that was Ansem for you--rude, crude, and just a downright terrible person.

The school obviously got wind of it in no time, but they took their time to strike.

That night, three members of the staff approached them during dinner. They all knew why.

“Ansem. You have been ordered to go to the sacristy.”

At the time, Sam had frowned at the odd command. As far as he knew, the sacristy was one of those places where they were legitimately _not_ supposed to go--a restricted area in any church, even in an ass-backwards one like Saint Mary’s.

Ansem froze for a full thirty seconds before trying to shrug it off. “Whatever.” He snorted, slouching back further in his chair.

“Now, Ansem,” one of the men said, his voice deepening--almost threatening.

Ansem stared at them for a moment, gauging their expressions before violently pushing himself away from the table. He walked away while everyone watched.

And so, they hadn’t seen Ansem since, and no one knew where he’d gone. It’d been two days now.

Musing over his classmate’s absence, Sam flipped over his letter, starting to write again. _Maybe the school has standards after all._


	4. Chapter Three

_I actually fell asleep last night… then woke up in a cold sweat five minutes later. Feeling that presence again… and thinking about something I read in one of the books I got the other day. They were mostly books about fires, how they start, how quickly they spread… but one of them talked about strange fires, fires with no explanations… it said that some people believe fire can be controlled by certain evil entities, beings, and used to harm people. It’s crazy, the stuff of fairy tales… like fire-breathing dragons, right? But then I remembered… when I went back into Sammy’s room that night, when I tried to get to Mary… the fire leapt out. Leapt out at me… like it had a purpose, like it wanted to keep me away, to stop me from reaching her. Like someone was controlling it._

John Winchester's journal, December 14, 1983.

 

\-----

 

Ansem came back on a Sunday. Sam learned this over breakfast that same week Ansem was culled from the rest of the students. If Sam was going to be honest, he’d admit to a certain level of apathy about this development--a feeling that would later be superseded by guilt.

It was a fairly relaxed day at the start. Although there was mass during the weekend, it wasn’t a mass they were invited to. Plus, even better, there was no class on the weekends, so their schedules were even freer. Meal times were more lax too, but tended to have more of a ‘do it yourself’ component. Sam tended to come early because the supervising staff, too focused on mainlining coffee, were much less diligent, and he’d become accustomed to reading during meals.

Jake was there in the eating area before anyone else, but that was no surprise. Jake was an early riser. Still slightly sweaty from his morning run, Jake was standing on the other side of a counter, spreading butter over toast. He nodded a greeting to Sam when their eyes met, wordlessly indicating toward the table he’d grabbed for their year.

Ava came in twenty minutes after they sat, yawning into her hand. She ended up leaning against Sam for the first bit of breakfast before he could convince her that eating was a better idea than going back to sleep. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the back of her hair looked like the product of a bird’s enthusiastic renovation efforts.

Andy came in last, nearly at the end of breakfast, a rare occurrence for a guy who sucked up food like a vacuum. He didn’t get anything either, moving straight for their table. He sat down in the empty seat next to Sam, pulling his already loose tie looser as he dropped into the plastic cradle. He looked exhausted. Then he started talking.

It was Andy, Ansem’s roommate, who told them about Ansem’s not so anticipated return. He told them about the guy’s slow, awkward shuffle to their shared room, his persistent paranoia, and his accusations that Andy was ‘one of them’.

Whatever punishment the clergy assigned had to be something pretty horrific because Ansem wasn’t the type to admit to his weaknesses. It couldn’t have been lines or restrictions or revoked privileges--those were all things he’d twist somehow and brag about. No, it had to be worse.

Sam frowned. Although Saint Mary’s was pretty clear on what you couldn’t do, no one really specified what would happen if you didn’t follow the rules. Though Sam tried to be good, he also knew he hailed from a family of chronic rule breakers, so not knowing what the punishments were at this school was a worry that had been wriggling about in the back of Sam’s head.

While Sam’s concern was mostly self-motivated, Andy’s concern was all for Ansem. He actually seemed pretty wrecked by the whole thing, and confused too. His eyes kept darting back and forth between the three people in front of them, as if he was desperately fishing for some helpful feedback. But, as much as Sam tried, it was hard to feel sorry for a guy who completely deserved what was coming to him.

“Whatever they did, man,” Andy said, finishing his story with a sigh. “Ansem’s not holding up to it. He’s… he’s off. Shattered, somehow. I don’t know what to do.”

Jake saluted him with a glass of milk. “Well, I say good riddance.” He took a deep swig, and then said, thickly, “Maybe it will help him become a better person.”

“Yeah,” Ava said, nodding. She grimaced, tugging at the end of her too short hair, and then Sam remembered how Ansem had thrown a huge glob of gum in her hair and refused to help her get it out. “He can know the other side of the torment, for once.”

Sam nodded. He couldn’t help but agree. Sometimes suffering helped build character, and Ansem needed a character beyond 'inconsiderate and cruel douchebag'.

Andy suddenly slammed his hands down on the table, making plates and utensils rattle. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you people?” he yelled, glaring at each of them in turn. Heads turned all around the room and attention was all on their table. “This isn't... unimportant. And I don’t care how much of a jerk he is! He’s really hurt right now and… you know what?” Andy shoved up from the table, face twisted in anger. “Screw you guys. If you saw him, you wouldn’t be so damn… _blasé_ about this!”

And then he stalked off, quickly exiting the room, the door slamming the wall before swinging shut. The hushed silence of them room slowly dissipated as the remaining students hissed at each other, shooting subtle looks in the direction of their table. At the other end of the room, the one supervising staff member eyed them with hard suspicion before lifting her newspaper in front of her face.

Sam felt bad and suddenly nauseous, and not because they were the center of attention now. He pushed his bowl of cereal away, Andy’s words reverberating like a jack hammer in his skull.

Jake snorted. “Drama queen.”

Ava laughed, sharing a knowing look with Jake. She leaned into the table, saying, “Yeah. I haven’t seen him this worked up since-”

“Knock it off,” Sam snapped. His fists laid flat against the table and, over them, Jake watched him, expressionless, while Ava’s smile slowly faded. “Andy’s really worried.”

“Fine, Sam,” Jake said, rolling his eyes. He picked up his glass again. “We’ll lay off your girlfriend.”

Sam turned red. “What- he’s not-” he sputtered. How did they come to that conclusion?

But Jake was already moving on. He gestured toward the door, looked at Ava and said, “Who knew he was so tight with Ansem?”

Ava was in no mood for speculation. Her brief amusement had transformed into guilt. “I’m gonna go check it out.” She stood up, twisting her fingers in front of her. “Wanna come?” This, she directed to the both of them.

“Nah, I got this essay to finish,” Jake said vaguely. He jerked his head to Sam. “And if Sam moves, he’ll get jumped on for his contraband.” After Ava nodded and left, his eyes jumped to Sam. “Saved you.”

There was no implied apology in that sentence, no acknowledgment of the casual accusation tossed out mere seconds before. It was, like most things Jake said, measured and mellow. Sam slowly relaxed, letting his hands open up and drop under the cover of the table.

“Thanks,” he muttered grudgingly, smoothing his fingers over the cover of the algebra book. He had reason to thank Jake again when the guy magnanimously distracted the staff so he could hurry out of the cafeteria with his book.

But Jake’s comment still lingered. _We’ll lay off your girlfriend._

Sam had thought only Dean could make him react so quickly and with such embarrassment. He was wrong.

Consumed by the neverending loop of Jake’s words, Sam wasn’t aware he’d made it outside until the brisk air buffeted him at the door. Tucking his arms closer to his sides, he swiftly traveled the short span of stairs between door and dirt. He then darted through early morning shadows, crossing the space between the chapel and the staff building, and entering the chapel through a side door.

It was before two o'clock.

Cautious now, he quickly made his way to the library off one wing of the lobby, opening the door as noiselessly as possible before squeezing through.

The library was a small room, square and compact, divided by six different book shelves--three on the right, three on the left. One long book shelf was pressed back against the wall behind a cluttered wooden desk, and it was to this shelf Sam went.

But it wasn’t the shelf he was interested in--it was the space right above it.

Right in the church, right under the noses of the priests, the older kids kept a revolving stash of things from the town--comic books, porn magazines, candy, alcohol, newspapers, and more--resting on top of the long, back book shelf, just out of sight to even the tallest person.

One other type of contraband items was, sadly, like the book he carried--outdated textbooks swiped from the Free Books table outside the public library every other month.

Sam thought that it said a lot about a school--that textbooks were contraband. That the school would restrict knowledge instead of freely disseminating it.

But what did he care? He wasn’t going to stay here long.

Sam looked both ways again, paranoid, eyes flicking back to the door, but the room remained empty. Deeming it safe enough, he stepped on the third to bottom shelf, giving himself just enough height to reach the stash. He slipped the tattered math book on top of magazines and crinkly paper, then dropped down to the floor noiselessly.

In the main church, a door opened. The noise echoed in the room, traveling through the cracked door of the library. Sam tensed--he’d lingered too long. He turned quickly, brushing by the messy desk, but, in his attempt to hurry away, he knocked over a pile of books. _Shit._

They clattered to the floor loudly, bouncing on hard spines and fluttering their musty pages. Wincing, Sam dropped to his knees and started picking them up one by one, stacking them back on the table.

He paused at the last book, because it wasn’t a book, not really. It was a worn, leather bound journal. The strings that kept it closed hung freely, a dangling temptation. Sam tilted the journal to the side, letting the cover fall open with the pull of gravity. He squinted at what was revealed: smooth, precise handwriting tucked in endless lines in the paper.

“Who’s there?” Someone barked from behind the door. _Bailey._ Sam swallowed hard, palming the journal as he rolled behind the table, tucking himself in the pocket that once cradled a chair. He held his breath as the door banged open, pressing himself against the wood.

Shoes thumped almost noiselessly against the cheap carpet. They came closer and closer, and then suddenly went to the left, rounding the desk. A priest’s robes swished into sight--Bailey’s habitual cassock.

Sam wet his dry lips, unable to look away. He never saw the priest in anything else because, as Bailey always said, his work was never done. And, since Bailey’s work was casting judgment on sinners and rule breakers, and here Sam was, breaking rules, maybe he had a point after all.

Sam had about a second more to indulge additional faintly hysterical thoughts before another pair of footsteps rounded the table. Oh, this wasn’t good. Sam clenched his eyes shut, trying to become one with the wood. His heart hammered in his chest, as if trying to flee.

There was a pause. “I don’t see anyone, Father.”

Sam’s eyes cracked open cautiously.

“Is that so? Very well.” Bailey cleared his throat, sounding distracted. The robes swayed in Sam’s line of sight, like the man was gesturing. “Come. This is his desk. Clear it out. Make sure nothing remains.”

“Yes, Father,” a man murmured. A pair of black pants moved in Sam’s vision, taking precedence. Drawers scraped over wood, papers shifted over each other. Cringing, Sam pressed himself in a smaller ball, finding it in him to be glad that all the drawers were situated right under the tabletop as opposed to down one side.

The drawer right over Sam’s head was pulled out, parting some of his hairs. There were more thuds and shuffling sounds. There was also a crinkling noise that followed each sound of displaced items, like the endless shifting of a trash bag.

Finally, the other man pulled back, as if finished. The priest, however, did not move. Bailey seemed to be lingering over Sam’s table, maybe looking at the books he’d replaced. Sam was concerned. Was he the one who put them there? Did he notice that they were out of order?

“Is that everything?”

“He had a journal.” Bailey sounded musing and pensive. “That above all things needs to be destroyed.” Sam was suddenly aware of the hard book binding under his arm, the sticky, matted feeling of warm leather.

“Maybe it’s in his room.”

“Yes, that’s likely.”

The pants moved to the left, but then suddenly paused, turning back. “Allow me to be the first one to congratulate you on your promotion, Father.”

“I can only endeavor to uphold the sacred covenant we have made,” Bailey murmured, his cassock floating out of sight and to the right. He continued speaking, his voice was getting lower and more distant. They were moving away.

Sam lifted the journal from his body, staring at it. They wanted to get rid of this? Then Sam should leave it there, maybe on the floor so they’d find it later. Yes, that was the best idea--the smartest idea. He could think of a million reasons why he should do that.

In the end, though, there was only one thing that kept him from placing that journal on the ground where it belonged.

He wanted to read it first.

Before he could convince himself that it was a bad idea, he tucked it into the back of his pants and hurried out of the library.

 

\-----

 

During the first class that next Monday, Sam learned the reason behind the staff member’s somber congratulations: Father Thompson, the head of the school, died during the weekend. The cause of his death wasn’t officially discussed by the staff, but was widely speculated on by the students, whose increasingly vulgar imaginations drew lines between illusory dots.

“Heard someone ventilated him,” an older boy whispered snidely, snickering at the thought.

“I heard Bailey smothered him!”

“I heard a statue fell on him!”

“I heard he had sex with Mother Superior!”

This last theory was met with a explosion of laughter.

No one really seemed to know how the head of the school died, and anyone who knew wasn’t talking. More importantly, grief seemed to be at a minimum amongst the students, which implied a lot of things. Sam tried to remember what Father Thompson was like to have invoked such indifference, but he was mostly drawing a blank. Thompson had handled more of the clerical side of things. He didn’t teach like Bailey did occasionally.

But, from what little Sam remembered, Father Thompson, a frail looking man with skin like ancient paper, was a soft spoken, mild person, practically Bailey’s antithesis in all ways. He tended to be the tempering agent to Bailey’s extremism. He was well liked by both the nine member team that made up the permanent staff and also the wider population of the always traveling auxiliary staff.

The students, on the other hand, had mixed feelings about him. As the head of the school, he was the one who decided on all the rules and carried out all the punishments. While he was no Bailey, he still watched them with the innate distrust every students was victim to. No student casually called him friend.

But, then again, no student called any member of the staff ‘friend’. Students were barely friends with other students, and only those in their own year. It just didn’t happen. Friendliness and trust in others weren’t traits that were fostered here.

But, regardless of that distrust, regardless of the general indifference of Sam’s peers to the death of one of their priests, there was still a concern growing amongst them, mostly unvoiced but shared by all.

“Is Battle Ax Bailey really gonna be in charge?”

“How much power would that give him?”

“Is he going to change things?”

“Would he finally go through with his threat to make us sleep outside?”

Distracted as they all were over the new height of power Bailey had over them all, the school’s new priest went almost entirely unnoticed--a new addition to the newly empty tenth position in the permanent staff.

While sweeping the frequently dirty paths, Sam chanced upon being out in the front courtyard when the new priest first arrived. He took the moment to gauge the new man warily. The priest walked along the concrete path from the gate, a large suitcase tucked under one arm, a leather bound book tucked under the other.

If Father Thompson was Bailey’s exact opposite in personality, then Father O’Malley was Bailey’s exact opposite in looks. He was younger, for starters. He had strong, square jaw and deep set gray eyes that flashed against tanned flesh. A delicate pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose, barely flashing in the afternoon sun.

And when the priest turned, when he saw Sam watching, he smiled, creases at his eyes bending. He lifted a hand and waved. Dumbfounded, all Sam could do was wave back.

He felt stupid about it later, but he wasn’t the only one to note the new priest’s odd friendliness.

“O’Malley’s nice,” Andy said without preamble. It took Sam a good minute to realize that he and Ava had effectively trapped him in the corner of the classroom, _on purpose_. He shifted around, gazing longingly at the retreating backs of his classmates before turning back to Andy.

Sam waited a minute, and then said, “So?”

“Really, really nice,” Ava said, her eyes big.

Andy had his hands shoved in his pockets. He shrugged. “We can talk to him in ways we can never talk to Bailey or the nuns.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. This all sounded vaguely like a con--propaganda, a scam, a way for him to lower his defenses. He read ulterior motives all over their faces and, for once, his paranoia was justified when they rapidly got to the point.

“We thought we’d tell him about Ansem,” Ava said, clapping her hands together.

Sam whipped his gaze from her, directing it to Andy. “Ansem? Is he…”

Andy grimaced. “He’s really bad off.” He stared at Sam for a moment, as if gauging his sympathies, and then took a step to the side. “Come on. We’ll show you.”

Sam followed them upstairs and into the bedroom. He took a second to look around. It was the first time he’d ever been inside Andy and Ansem’s shared room. It was larger than his own, but not by much. Most noticeably, it had a long, consistent wall completely with a small, high window, which differed much from Sam’s room. Sam’s room didn’t have a window and the wall toward the outside of the building was deformed by a rising chimney that cut through his room.

But Andy’s room was different--cramped despite its extra space thanks to the two beds and desks shoved in there. What little free floor space existed was covered with the wrinkled detritus of discarded uniforms--a collared white shirt here, pooled black slacks there.

Wary, Sam stepped a little deeper in the room, careful not to step on the navy blue vest just left of his feet. He saw immediately that, on one of the beds, just under the window, sandwiched between the wall and a pile of folded clothes, Ansem laid face down, his neck slick with sweat.

He didn’t respond to Ava’s greeting, nor to Andy’s call. All he did was tighten his arm around the folded clothes, squeezing them to his side. He hadn’t been in class all day, Sam remembered suddenly.

Sam turned to look at Andy and, at a gesture, dropped back to the hallway with the other two. He was bothered by what he was seeing. Ansem seemed sick, but he was the type of person who would whine endlessly about it, not the type of person who’d hide his face away and let it ride out.

“What do you think?” Ava asked in a whisper. Her hands were folded over her stomach. “Should we ask O’Malley?”

Sam didn’t see why. If Andy was sick, what he needed was a doctor, not a priest. He shrugged helplessly. “Why are you asking me?”

Andy gestured impatiently at Sam. “You, you’re the levelheaded one!”

Ava bounced from foot to foot, looking guilty. “And we were kinda hoping you’d watch Ansem until we came back.”

“You-” Sam started to say, annoyed because they’d already made their decision. He thought better of it, though, and bit out a quick, “ _Fine_.”

“Oh, thank you!” Exuberant, Ava threw her arms around him and squeezed.

“Owe you one,” Andy promised, backing down the hallway. The neverending tension writ between his eyes seemed to disappear, oddly enough. He looked younger, happier, and relieved.

Sam felt his neck heat. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Damn straight you do,” he muttered, stepping back into the room. He tried to find a place to sit, eventually shifting a pile of clothes off a desk chair. The other two darted down the hall, presumably to talk to O’Malley.

Sam was suddenly very aware he was alone with Ansem--a guy he didn’t like who didn’t like him in return. This could turn very ugly very fast, he recognized, but, all throughout Sam’s shuffling, Ansem never acknowledged him. Sam watched him regardless, vigilant, puzzled by his oddly still posture. But, eventually, he grew bored, so he found himself looking around the room for something to busy his mind.

A rolled up sheet on the floor caught his attention. Frowning, Sam nudged it with his foot, unfolding it to reveal the same knife Ansem had cut him with his first day in Hell House--a small blade that had gleamed even in the light of the overcast day, marred only by a single drop of blood.

But now it was drenched, clumps of tacky, dried red wrapping around the handle. Sam looked at it in horror, then at Ansem, only to find Ansem was staring right back at him, his body held up from the bed with one unsteady elbow.

The boy had shiny eyes, bitten lips, and shadows all over his face.

“What did you do?” Sam whispered.

Ansem looked down, disinterested in the fact that Sam saw his knife. “Killed a cat.” He pushed himself up and settled into a seated position, rubbing his nose with the back of his arm.

“ _Why?_ ”

Ansem shot him a look--a heavy lidded glare that was as frightened as it was defiant. “Because I c-could.” He looked down almost immediately, twitching minutely. His hands trembled against his thighs as he gently set his feet down to the floor.

Sam continued to stare and said quietly, “You’re lying.”

Ansem’s head snapped up. He sneered. “And what are you going to do about it? You can’t hurt me like…” He froze mid-step, his eyes directed to the ceiling. There was white all around his eyes and his mouth hung open.

Sam glanced, paranoid, at whatever he was looking at, but saw nothing. “Like what?”

Ansem’s eyes slowly fell, meeting his. “Do you smell that?” he asked in a quiet, broken voice.

“Smell _what_?”

“Rotten eggs,” he whispered, sniffing the air. “Is it here?”

The door to the room suddenly opened. Ansem flinched badly, backing up into the bed, tucking his legs up against his chest protectively. Sam watched, unable to help but _wanting_ to. He wanted to erase that instinctive fear from Ansem’s face. Though Ansem was a horrible person, his fear was a thousand times worse.

Finally, Sam turned his gaze to the interloper. He stood from his chair, turning to face the door solidly.

“Father,” he murmured warily. He kept his stance wide, holding his arms loosely by his sides.

“Samuel,” O’Malley greeted. His voice was low, like the rumbling of a car. His thick glasses shone in the dim light oddly when he tilted his head. “Or do you prefer Sam?”

“He prefers Sam,” Ava piped up. Her eyes were glittering and her face was glowing with happiness. She squeezed by the priest, hovering at Sam’s side expectantly. Elbowing Sam frantically when he didn’t budge, she said in a stage-whisper, “He’s going to help.” She fluffed her hands out by her legs, making small, subtle gestures like she wanted him to move.

O’Malley smiled benevolently at Sam until Sam, reluctance stiffening his knees, stepped out of his way. The priest approached Ansem carefully and, when Ansem refused to look at him, reached out to lifted his chin, looking at the boy straight in the eyes. Ansem’s nostrils flared and his pupils tightly constricted, but he didn’t fight the grip. Sweat streaked across his pale forehead, rolling down his cheek like tears.

After a moment, the priest clicked his tongue, and then glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of them. “I would prefer to have some time alone with Ansem.”

Sam was suddenly aware of being pulled back to the door. He didn’t want to go. Something was wrong, _off_. He just couldn’t put his finger on it, and he couldn’t demand to stay either. He stared as long as he could, watching the two of them like a hawk.

O’Malley was looking down at the floor where his foot had nudged the crumbled sheets cradling the knife, but he didn’t spare the sight more than a few seconds of attention. He sat down on the bed next to Ansem, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Ansem, after a moment, turned his head toward the priest, shrinking even further into himself.

Ava closed the door, cutting them off from sight.

Sam shrugged off Andy’s grip on his elbow. “How is _he_ going to help?” he demanded lowly, jabbing a hand at the wood.

“He’s a _psychologist_ ,” Ava said, like it explained everything. “He thinks Ansem had a mental breakdown thingy because of repressed anxiety-”

Andy butted in, bouncing on his heels. “And he’s gonna talk to Ansem about it and try to help.”

“He’s really nice,” Ava said, somewhat plaintively, looking at Andy for support.

“Super nice,” Andy said. “And books. He has so many books, and not all of them are on religion!” He grinned, clearly excited. “He even said he’d talk to Bailey about lifting the restriction on nonreligious media!”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” was all Sam could say through a thick throat. He stared at the door.

Somehow, he got the sense that he had failed someone, and he was pretty sure that someone was Ansem.


	5. Chapter Four

_I find myself disturbed by the benignity of evil. It is an illusion, of course, meant to test faith. I will not be bothered by illusions. My faith will stand strong. Evil comes in the form of devils and babes, and neither is different from the other._

 _However, I must confess a failing--my heart wavers at the sight of tears._

Father Gregory Thompson's journal, March 12, 1986.

 

\-----

 

Sam jerked awake at the noise of his doorknob rattling. It was the dead of night--probably even early morning, he couldn’t tell. He dragged his knuckles against his eyes, groggy.

He’d managed to get used to the sound of the staff smoothly opening and closing the doors for ‘checks’--at least enough to keep sleeping. But this time, the doorknob shook and trembled, like the person at the other side was too panicked and kept missing the handle.

Finally, the door opened, and so Andy barreled in. He was pale and nervous, dressed in only a t-shirt, boxers, and a pair of ragged socks. Noticing that Sam was awake, he made a relieved noise and quickly closed the door behind him, sliding Sam’s desk chair right under the knob.

Sam sat up quickly as Andy whipped around, stumbling over to his bed before falling to his knees.

“I think I…” Andy gulped loudly. His fingers clung at the edge of Sam’s mattress. “God, I hope it was just a nightmare.”

Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed, letting his toes hit the ground. “Man, what are you talking about?” It was early in the morning. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles again.

Andy started gesturing wildly. “I woke up, see? And I knew someone was in the room, so I looked, and it was Ansem. And I was like, what the hell, man, but sort of distantly because it’s really frigging early right now and it is his room too and I wasn’t thinking straight-”

“Get to the point,” Sam said testily.

Andy took another huge gulp of air. “He was hovering over me and… You know what, it’s probably just a nightmare, that’s all just a nightmare…” He froze, then his cheek extended to one side, like he was sticking his tongue in the wall of mouth. “…except I can fucking taste it! Oh my God, Sam.” He slammed both hands over his mouth, his eyes wide and horrified. He shrank to the floor, sitting on his feet.

“Andy…” Sam said warningly when no explanations came forth.

After a moment, Andy lowered his fingers. “Um. He was bleeding in my mouth. I think.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Bleeding. In your mouth.”

“Yeah. Trippy shit, right?” Andy’s eyes darted back and forth, looking around at anything but Sam. There was color on his face now--a solid red. “Anyway, can I stay in here for tonight? I don’t want to go back and have him-” Andy made a series of increasingly incoherent gestures before pressing his hands together in an unmistakably beseeching plea.

Sam looked up at the ceiling, sighed, and then said, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just… shut up and go back to sleep.” Andy sputtered his gratitude and, after a moment of hesitation, laid down on the floor.

As for Sam, he fell back against the mattress, tucking his legs back into the bedding. He curled up on his side, noting uncomfortable how quickly his toes had grown cold. The chair was in front of the door. They’d be fine if Ansem continued being weird. Andy was safe in here--safe from more than just Ansem, what with all the salt Sam had everywhere.

So, really, all Sam had to do was go back to sleep.

Except now Sam was up, awake, thinking about the floor and how cold it was.

Sam’s eyes flashed open. He stared at the wall blindly for a moment. “On the bed, Andy,” he said gruffly.

Andy immediately popped up, shivering. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

He slid into the bed with Sam, the chilled, bare flesh of his arm pressed against Sam’s. Sam didn’t dare to breathe, uncertain about how he felt about this. He stayed quiet as the bed rocked slightly with the sounds of Andy settling in.

Once Andy’s back was flat to the mattress, he tensed up. And because he was tense, Sam was tense. They were tense together.

Andy broke the silence. “It’s not, um, weird that two guys are sleeping in the same bed together, right?”

“No,” Sam said shortly.

“Good. Because it feels weird, to me, but as long as it’s just me…”

Sam found himself sharing unexpectedly, his voice hoarse as he said, “My brother and I used to share a bed.” He swallowed for a moment, and then clarified. “Less when he got older, but sometimes…”

Sometimes even when he was older, when Sam would wake up from a nightmare or when they were winding down from a bad hunt, they‘d share the same bed. Sometimes, they didn’t even sleep. They just laid there, next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, talking quietly in the dark until the sun rose.

Sam always regretted the lack of sleep the day after (and John always, always knew), but he couldn’t regret the chance it gave him to talk to his brother, his best friend, in the protective covering of the dark.

Dean was always more honest. So was Sam.

Andy’s cheek was pressed to the pillow. His eyes glittered in the dark. “You write letters to your brother. I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever get any back?” Sam went rigid. Wordlessly, he stared at the other boy, his teeth grinding together. Andy winced, yanking his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Shutting up now.”

Sam stared at his profile a little longer before retreating to the neutral focus point as well. He laid quietly, motionless, listening to the strange and familiar noise of another person just beside him.

Andy fell asleep about an hour later, shifting seamlessly from rigidity to relaxation. But Sam couldn’t quiet his restless mind, too aware of the other body in the bed. He grimaced.

Andy made it weird by pointing it out, he decided. He tried to think about something else.

As Andy’s breath evened out, Sam thought about a lot of things--about Hell House, about his brother, about when he was going to get out of here. He thought about the ‘laying off his girlfriend’ comment from Jake and wondered when it became so obvious that he preferred Andy’s presence over the others.

Jake was his first friend at Hell House, sure, but Andy was so much more in tune with Sam’s thinking. And he was smart too. And funny. And kind. He was the kind of guy who worried about shit heads and talked about philosophy and watched out for the rest of them, even to the point of being annoying about it.

Sam liked Andy.

Sam realized he was looking at Andy’s relaxed face, and that he was smiling. He abruptly stopped. He stared blankly at the ceiling, aware of his rapid heartbeat, aware of the heat flushing his skin. He denied facts for a full straight minute groaning softly and covering his face.

Crap. Jake was sharper than he knew.

He did have a crush on Andy, didn’t he?

 _Dean_ , he thought, closing his eyes with a wince. He shrugged. _What can I say… not quite the head cheerleader, right?_

Next to him, Andy slept on, oblivious. Sam didn’t sleep at all.

 

\-----

 

Sam crept out of bed a few hours later, taking care not to wake up his unexpected bed partner. In a daze, he walked around the property just as the sun started creeping up over the horizon.

Sam Winchester had a gay crush. How did he feel about that, exactly?

And, more importantly, what would Dean say?

When the sun rose higher in the sky, Sam decided it was time to head to breakfast.

He blamed the lack of sleep for his lowered guard for what happened next, because it was pathetic, really. One minute, he was walking. The next, he had his back pressed against the moss covered church wall, an arm pressed to his neck. His hands flew up to relieve the pressure, which helped a little.

He got a good look at his attacker.

“Ansem,” Sam said, surprised.

The look in Ansem’s eyes was wild, feral. He brought their faces close. His expression was so alien and foreign. Sam saw nothing of the Ansem he thought he knew in that cold, hard expression.

“ _Get your own damn brother_ ,” he hissed. Something echoed softly under his words, commanding, but Sam didn’t pay it a bit of attention.

 _Brother? What the hell is he talking about?_ Sam’s mind jumped to Dean suddenly, then his eyes narrowed. That was the _last_ thing he wanted to be harassed about today. “I _have_ a brother,” he snarled, shoving the smaller guy off of him.

Ansem staggered back a bit but kept his ground. He jabbed a finger at Sam. “Stay away from Andy,” he warned, then jogged away, going toward the cafeteria.

Sam took a few moments to compose himself before following him.

Jake, Ava, and Andy were already there, half-way done with breakfast. Andy looked up at him with a concerned expression, and Sam wondered how much it showed on his face--Sam’s apparent affection, Sam’s awkwardness with it all, Ansem’s attack.

He smiled tightly at Andy before settling down across from him with a bowl of cereal.

A minute later, a voice sailed across the room. “Hey guys!” It was Ansem, falsely cheerful and eating oatmeal. Suspicious, Sam wondered how long they’d been watched before he decided to address them, but no hint of abnormal vigilance lingered in Ansem’s sunny expression. “No, wait, I’ll come to you.” He got up and crossed the room quickly, bowl in hand.

“Oh fuck me. Why is he sitting with us?” Jake said in an undertone.

Ansem paused mid-step, hearing Jake’s mutter. “I’m not sitting with _you_ ,” he said snidely, making a face at the rest of the table. “I’m sitting with Andy.” He turned to Andy and, suddenly, his expression was happy and light again. “Hi, Andy!”

“Hi, Ansem,” Andy said, resigned.

Ava, who’d been scrutinizing Sam since he sat down, suddenly rapped the table with her hands. “Oh, gosh, I can’t wait any longer!” She reached into her lap and then shoved a folded piece of paper across the table, beaming happily. “Happy birthday, Sam!”

The attention of everyone at the table turned abruptly and uncomfortably to him. Dutifully, he turned his attention to the make-shift card, flipping it open. Everyone in their year--with a pointed exception of Ansem--had signed it, leaving messages that ranged from heartfelt (Ava) to mildly amusing (Andy).

“Yeah, happy birthday,” Andy said with a smile. Ansem watched him with a jealous expression but stayed mercifully quiet.

The sentiment was echoed by Jake, who added, “So how old are you?” His name too was scrawled across the bottom, along with a pithy suggestion to work on his push-ups.

“Sixteen,” Sam said, closing the card. “Thanks, guys.”

Jake’s head bobbed up and down. “Two years away from escaping Hell House. Nice.”

Sam smiled tightly, and looked toward the cafeteria door. He had less time than that. _Dean is coming today_ , he thought fervently.

But then the hours past. Morning gave way to afternoon and afternoon darkened into night.

Dean never came.

 

\------

 

Summer passed, uneventful--hot and miserable, but uneventful. No one ever went home during the summer and the only absences on campus were those of the graduating seniors and those members of the staff who needed to travel.

It could have been a recipe writ specifically for disaster--a ten to one ratio of students to staff during the least active part of the year, academically. However, the weather seemed to be on the school’s side. Rarely did anyone want to do more than sit on the grass under a tree and not move for a few hours.

Some even took to sleeping outside at night during the worst of the heat waves, but the staff caught on quickly to that and ended it, leaving the students to desperately crack open their windows lest they drown in the building’s AC-less humidity.

Sam, who didn't have a window, had fought back against the heat by taking multiple showers at various hours in the night, which helped. A little.

It was a truly miserable summer, and, despite the rather one-sided, lackluster education here, September couldn’t come fast enough for Sam. Once classes started again, he immediately threw himself into his work. He may have hated the overemphasis on sin and innate evil, on the coming apocalypse and Final Judgment, but he could still do it well.

Soon, even stern Sister Elizabeth was offering cautious praise for his papers, nodding to him approvingly when he raised his hand in class. Jake called him a sellout and Ava rolled her eyes, but Andy, at the very least, was glad to have another teacher’s pet in the group.

And so, it was this way that September bled into October, leading him to where he was now.

It was Halloween. While hundreds--maybe millions--of kids loitered the streets looking for treats, Sam was on his bed, curled up on one side, rereading some of his favorite parts of the Bible--the ones never touched on in class. He had a half-finished essay by his knee, but he ignored it, too comfortable to focus on the negative themes.

He lifted his head from the book after a moment, alert to a sound that didn’t belong--something other than the hum of electricity or the murmur of students in their rooms.

Someone was walking down the hall, sniffling quietly.

Abandoning the book, Sam sat up quickly from his bed, looking out the open door just in time to see a flash of a neon green dress disappearing into the opposite room.

He stopped just shy of the hallway, watching with some confusion as Ava threw her purse on top of her bed.

“Rough night with Kevin?”

Ava turned around. Her borrowed mascara tinted her eyes with gray smears and her mouth was trembling. She flapped her arms agitatedly for a moment, and then approached the hallway. Like Sam, she lingered just inside of her door.

“I’m in trouble,” she whispered, mindful of curfew‘s restrictions. “They said I was committing the sin of procreation. Procreation! I’m _sixteen_ years old!” Suddenly, she turned on him. Her eyes gleamed with tears and betrayal, anger and fear. She jabbed a finger in his direction, hissing, “I thought _you_ were supposed to look out for me!”

“I did!” Sam protested. He’d been listening to the various creaks and sighs of their floor for hours, waiting for the imperious clipping of one of the staff member’s shoes. “No one approached your room. _I swear_.”

“How else would they have known I was gone? You must have fallen asleep or something.” Gulping, Ava glared at him, wrapping her arms around her torso. Tears glistened in her eyes briefly before falling on her cheeks. “Thanks a lot, Sam.”

Upset, Sam started to step out into the hallway. “I-”

“Ava.”

Sam’s attention whipped to the left, focusing entirely on the woman who stood there—Sister Catherine. She was a tall, thin lady with pale blue eyes. She was older than the others--about seventy to their fifty--and carried every year on her face.

“You were ordered to report to the sacristy, _not_ to your room,” she was saying, her mouth flattening unpleasantly. Her eyes moved over to Sam, narrowing slightly.

He straightened up with thinking, stepping back into the threshold of his room. Sister Catherine was the head of the nuns at Saint Mary’s. She had a distinctly authoritarian air about her at all times. Like the other nuns, she mostly kept an eye on the girls. Sam had always thought that the reason why the girls were better behaved than the boys was because of Sister Catherine’s supervision.

She had a sharpness to her that many of the others lacked, and it was to her that the staff looked for guidance on handling the students, not Bailey.

Ava was not immune to that sharpness. She retreated into herself a bit, looking left and right helplessly before stepping into the hallway. “Yeah, yeah,” she said miserably. “I’m coming.”

The sister could shrivel someone’s self esteem with just one look, and she was shooting that look at Sam all of a sudden. “Go to sleep, Samuel,” she said pointedly.

“Yes, Sister.” Despite his verbal agreement, Sam watched them leave from his doorway, his hand tightening on the frame.

There was a sudden 'psst', a call to get his attention. It was Andy, who also had his door open. “You shouldn’t get involved with shady stuff,” he hissed.

“Shady?” Sam echoed, keeping his voice down but unable to censor the outrage. He gestured down the hall. “She was just going out on a _date_!”

“It’s shady to them, and they’re the ones holding the mallet.” Andy made a brief, spastic motion with his hands. “Don‘t fuck with the person who has the mallet!”

Sam looked up and down the hallway before crossing over to Andy’s cracked door. “How do they punish people in the sacristy?” he demanded quietly, knowing it was something different than the lines nuns tossed out for general rudeness and minor rule breaking. “What do they do? And _why?_ ”

He was taller than Andy now. Well, he was taller before too--when he first came to Saint Mary’s--but the height disparity was nothing to talk about then. Now, Sam towered over him by a good seven inches, at least.

His extra height threw a shadow over Andy and Andy had to look up to keep eye contact--which he did, unsteadily, as nerves made him twist and untwist the knob on his door.

“Dude, I don’t know, but I get the sense that I don’t _want_ to know.” Andy swallowed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “And, why? If you sin, really sin, then they get you. That’s when they send you to the sacristy.”

“What’s really sinning?”

“Sex. Preludes to sex. Desecration of holy objects. Breaking one of their cardinal rules, like trying to work your way around their system. I know a girl who got sent there for _writing home_.”

Sam frowned. “But I write home.”

Andy shot him a disbelieving look. “Yes, and then you give them your letters to mail, like a _big, stupid idiot_. You don’t think they read them?” Sam froze. Andy continued on, oblivious in his recounting. “She slipped it in the mailbox while they were in town. They got really mad, and, whatever they did, she never talked again. Ever.”

Sam jumped on that revelation, demanding again, “What’s the punishment? Lines? Restriction?” He looked left and right again, judging the hallway to be empty enough. Then he whispered, “Do they _hit_ people?”

“I don’t _know_!” Andy looked frustrated. He’d given up his grip on the door knob, but was now tugging on huge fistfuls of hair over his ears. “People looked unscathed when they finally come out. Physically, anyway…” He suddenly clapped his hands together in front of him, as if trying to focus. He clenched his eyes shut. “I had a point here, Sam.”

“What’s your point?”

Andy opened his eyes, looking up at Sam again. “Keep your nose clean. Don’t bend the rules and _certainly_ don’t break them. That’s what I do. I’ve been here for years and years and years, Sam. That’s the _only_ way you can deal with these people. Do your time and _get out_.”

Sam’s anger faded. It was hard to be mad at Andy when the guy was so damn concerned about him. Defeated, Sam let himself fall against the frame of the door, bracing his weight with one forearm. “What about _Ava_?” he whispered, his eyebrows pulling together.

Andy reacted to the plea in Sam’s voice, his expression softening. “She’s gonna go through the same thing as Ansem did before. I’m sorry.” He stared at Sam for a moment, then took one step back. “Good night, Sam.”

Andy started to close the door, but, catching a glimpse of something odd, Sam immediately shot his hand out, splaying his fingers across wood. He stared beyond Andy for a moment before turning his gaze back to the nervous boy.

“Where’s Ansem right now?”

Andy bristled suddenly, defensive and scared. “I don’t freaking know!”

And then, despite Sam’s hand, Andy’s door slammed shut.


End file.
